


as you’ve always been

by weisenbachfelded



Series: as you’ve always been au [1]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Jack, Friends With Benefits, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, alternate universe - theyre on a plane together, anyway, author davey, cos this is that, is there an ex-best-friends-to-lovers tag, nonbinary albert crutchie specs as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 43,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25433059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weisenbachfelded/pseuds/weisenbachfelded
Summary: Right. Because, just in case he had forgotten, he was about to spend eight hours and thirty-five minutes, thirty thousand feet in the air, stuck sitting next to Davey fucking Jacobs. Fantastic.Jack and Davey parted ways three years ago. In the time since, Davey has become a world-renowned author, and Jack a wildly successful artist. And somehow, they have ended up on the same flight from New York to Rome.
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Series: as you’ve always been au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075670
Comments: 510
Kudos: 280





	1. seats E-5 and E-6

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome back to another one of my ridiculously specific aus. again, bear with me on this. it’s a good one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (if ur reading while im editing i am so sorry. ao3 will not format the italics properly and im gonna fix it in the morning!)

Davey had never liked flying.

He didn’t like being cramped, didn’t like turbulence, and he didn’t like the food. And, if he thought too hard about how he was trapped in a tiny little tin can thousands of feet in the air, it made him feel a little bit like he was going to pass out.

He avoided flying whenever he could - not least because it made him feel horribly guilty about his carbon footprint, but sometimes, it was just unavoidable. And, for this trip, his publisher had made it very clear that flying was absolutely unavoidable.

The publishing company had sprung for premium economy, though, so at the very least he’d have lots of leg room and a window seat (and preferably his one neighbour wouldn’t show and he’d be able to sit alone.)

That being said, he did like airports. He liked having twenty different restaurants to choose from, he liked getting ridiculously large confectionary as presents for Sarah, and he liked that every other shop was usually a bookstore.

However long it had been, it always gave him a thrill to see his own name on the front covers of books in the windows, to stand in line behind someone buying a copy of his book. Even better was the fact that people would have no idea who he was - unless, he supposed, they looked in the back cover and saw his little biography section, and his photo, but people never seemed to do that.

Today, though, was the rare day that someone recognised him. He reached the front of the queue at the bookstore, to see the mouth of the girl at the till fall open in shock.

‘You’re David Jacobs.’ She whispered in awe.

‘The one and only.’ Davey replied, a little embarrassed.

‘I - wow. You’re fantastic.’ She said, still frozen to the spot. ‘Could I get an autograph?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ He said, with a smile. As tired as he was, he never minded meeting people who liked his books - and a perk of the job tended to be that people asked for signatures, rather than photographs.

The girl rushed over to the window, and grabbed a copy of _Arise, My Love_ from the window display. She pulled a pen from her pocket, and flipped quickly to the front page, just beneath the dedication.

Davey took the pen, and paused, for a moment. It had been a while since he had opened his own copy, and a while since he had read the dedication.

_To all those I have loved, and who have loved me (you know who you are). To Sarah, for reading this and telling me you hated it until I rewrote the ending to suit you. I love you._

It seemed a little stupid, and rather pretentious, reading it back.

‘What’s your name?’ He asked.

‘Uh - Buttons.’ The girl said, blushing a little.

‘That’s a really lovely name.’ Davey said, and wrote a quick note to her, signing his name at the end with a flourish.

‘Thank you so much.’ She said, staring at the note. ‘Uh - sorry.’ She looked up, and behind him at the queue that was rapidly elongating.

‘No problem at all.’ He said, and handed over the book he’d picked out. She scanned it through, and slipped a receipt inside, handing it back with awe still shining in her eyes.

*

_‘So, uh, I read your book.’ Jack said, suddenly. Davey looked up from his laptop, frowning a little. ‘Or, I guess it’s not a book yet. What do you call it when it’s just the draft?’_

_‘A manuscript.’ Davey said, slowly. ‘You read it?’_

_‘Yeah.’_

_‘I - it’s really long, Jackie. And it’s such an early draft, it must have been so confusing.’_

_‘I know. I wanted to, though.’ Jack shrugged, but he was blushing, just a little. ‘I used that coloured plastic that Race got me. It makes it a lot easier to read stuff. Took me ages, though.’_

_‘How long?’ Davey asked._

_Jack blushes even brighter red. ‘Three months.’_

_Davey didn’t quite know what to say. He closed his laptop, and turned to face Jack properly._

_‘You spent three months reading my book?’_

_‘Yeah. It was amazing, Davey.’_

_Davey didn’t respond._

_‘Should I not have read it?’ Jack asked, beginning to frown._

_Davey hugged him, hard. Jack, surprised for a moment, started, and then, very slowly, wrapped his arms around Davey._

_‘You really liked it?’ Davey asked, his voice barely a whisper, trying very hard not to cry._

_‘I loved it.’ Jack said. ‘I, uh - I highlighted some of my favourite bits, if you want to see.’_

_Davey pulled back from the hug, his mouth open, just a little bit._

_‘Jack.’ He said, suspended in his disbelief. ‘That means so much.’_

_‘Don’t be such a sap.’ Jack shoved him, gently, but he didn’t stop smiling._

_‘My best friend just read the first draft of my first ever book. I’m allowed to be sappy.’_

_‘Shut up.’_

*

Davey hovered over the snack shelves, trying to think ahead to what he would want to eat in three, four, seven hours’ time. He had fruit, already, and a sandwich, in case the meal on the plane was absolutely inedible.

An announcement over the PA system informed him that his flight was beginning to board, at gate eleven. He quickly grabbed a few things, wavering for a moment over a bag of pretzels. They reminded him, so stupidly, of Jack, of long, dark evenings on the fire escape, a bag between them, Jack throwing them up in the air and catching them in his mouth.

Davey grabbed the pretzels, and paid at the self-checkout, rather selfishly wanting to avoid another recognition before his flight.

*

Jack sprinted through the airport, dodging people left and right, his suitcase flying behind him. He frantically fished in his jacket pocket for his passport, trying to simultaneously read the gate number on his boarding pass and the gate numbers he was passing as he ran.

Gate three, gate five, gate nine, gate twelve - shit. He tripped over his suitcase in a frantic hurry to turn around, just as the PA system announced that _boarding at gate eleven for the ten thirty-five flight to Rome was closing._

He skidded to a halt by gate eleven, wordlessly holding out his boarding pass and passport, doubled over as he gasped for breath.

‘All set, Mr. Kelly.’ The attendant at the desk handed him back a stamped boarding pass and his passport, which he took with a breathless smile of thanks. He followed the attendant’s directions along a long, clattering tunnel, only to end up in a line to board the plane. So much for all his sprinting.

In the near distance, he could just make out the door to the plane, and a flight attendant directing people to their seats. He checked his boarding pass one last time, even though he knew he would only forget his seat number thirty seconds later. E-5. He tucked his boarding pass inside his passport, and focused very hard on remembering his seat number.

‘E-5.’ He whispered, under his breath. ‘E-5, E-5.’

Jack hoisted his suitcase up with one hand as he walked forwards in the line, suddenly very thankful he didn’t have his hands full of duty-free purchases. Although, he was slightly annoyed that he was now going to have to spring for the five dollar bags of crisps they had on the plane, instead of having bought them in bulk at the airport.

Rather unsurprisingly, by the time he reached the front of the line, he had completely forgotten his seat number. He fished his boarding pass out, and showed it to the flight attendant, who directed him a few rows down and to the right. He could vaguely make out the empty seat that he assumed must be his, an aisle seat next to a guy in a suit, leaning down, so that only the top of his dark hair was visible. So much for a seat on his own this flight. At least the guy looked like a businessman, so hopefully there wouldn’t be much conversation.

Lugging his suitcase behind him, he took a few steps forward, only to find himself frustratingly stuck behind a woman in row B struggling to hoist her baggage into the overhead locker.

‘Ma’am, would you like me to - ’ he started. She turned to him, and relief flooded her face.

‘Would you really?’ She asked, smiling at him. All of his frustration vanished, and he nodded, leaning up on his tiptoes to shove her suitcase up into the locker. He might only have had five feet and six inches to his name, but it gave him a small sense of pride to be of some help.

‘Thank you ever so much.’ She gushed, once he had clicked the locker shut.

‘No problem.’ He nodded, and smiled, picking his suitcase up again and making his way towards his seat. He followed the letters and numbers above the seats as he went - row C, row D, row E, seats five and six.

Jack looked down, at the man in the suit sitting in seat E-6. The man looked at him.

For just a moment, Jack forgot how to breathe.

‘Hi, Jack.’ Davey said.

In that moment, Jack resented him for the evenness of his voice, for the unwavering firmness with which he spoke.

Such tranquility, such nonchalance, was thousands of miles away from what Jack was feeling right now.

The last time he’d seen Davey Jacobs must have been a good three years ago now.

He didn’t even know why he was pretending. He could remember their last interaction down to every little movement, like a motion picture playing on demand in his head.

The last time he’d seen Davey, he hadn’t even been bi yet.

Well, obviously, he _had_. He just hadn’t admitted it to anyone, least of all himself.

The last time he’d seen Davey, he had cried for an hour afterwards. He had certainly never admitted that to anyone.

_*_

_’I’ve got all my stuff.’ Davey said. ‘The moving van’s outside.’_

_Jack couldn’t see him for all the cardboard boxes stacked around the room. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see him, wasn’t sure he could quite bring himself to step to the side, to look at Davey one last time before he left._

_‘Do you need help taking it down?’ Jack asked._

_‘Nah, it’s fine. Sarah’s here to do it.’ Davey said. Jack tried with all his might to figure out what it was that Davey was feeling, if there was any trace of regret, of worry, of uncertainty in his voice. But he could find none, Davey’s voice unequivocally neutral._

_‘Okay.’ Jack said, because he didn’t know what else to say. What else was there, when they had had seven years of sharing everything with each other?_

_‘I’ll see you, then?’ Davey said, even though they both knew that they wouldn’t. Jack could hear him taping up boxes. He still couldn’t quite figure out how to step into Davey’s line of sight._

_‘Yeah.’ Jack said. ‘Call when you get there?’ He asked, even though they both knew that he wouldn’t._

_‘Sure.’ Davey said. The noise from the other side of the wall of boxes stopped. Jack‘s breath caught in his throat, a desperate kind of hope suddenly rising._

_And then, Jack heard the front door open, and Davey’s footsteps walking away and down the corridor._

_*_

‘Hi, Davey.’ Jack said, finally. ‘Looks like we’re stuck together.’ He gave an awkward little laugh.

‘Looks like it.’ Davey nodded.

Jack had forgotten just how blue Davey’s eyes were. It wasn’t that they were bright, or piercing, or icy - but rather a stormy, ocean-like mixture of grey and blue, intense and entrancing. Jack had thought, many a time, that it would surely be very easy to fall into them, and to swirl ever downwards, like one might in the eye of a tornado. It was a feeling that he had tried, and failed, many a time, to replicate on paper, on canvas, in pencil, watercolour, and oil paint.

It took him a long moment to truly appreciate the fact that Davey was wearing a suit. It hadn’t really registered as anything significant, when he’d thought Davey was a random businessman - but now that it was _Davey_ , that had suddenly changed. Jack felt at once very underdressed, in his dirty old jeans and t-shirt, what with Davey sitting there with his top button undone, in what looked like a fairly expensive, silky white shirt and a suit jacket.

If Jack hadn’t been bi when he had last seen Davey, he most definitely was now.

‘Sir, if you could put your luggage away, we’re going to take off soon.’ A flight attendant said, with a smile, as he squeezed past Jack.

Right. Because, just in case he had forgotten, he was about to spend eight hours and thirty-five minutes, thirty thousand feet in the air, next to Davey fucking Jacobs. Fantastic.


	2. takeoff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for the love so far! vvv glad to hear that the concept is hitting :)

It felt remarkably as if Davey’s throat was closing up. He wondered, vaguely, if this was what it felt like when you had an allergic reaction, and your throat swelled shut until you could no longer breathe.

Because standing in front of him, in jeans and a t-shirt, was Jack fucking Kelly, staring straight at him with those familiar dark eyes and an indiscernible expression on his face. Davey thought it must have been something akin to disgust, or perhaps just an intense frustration.

Jack hoisted his suitcase up with one hand, shoving it into the overhead locker. The hem of his t-shirt rose up, just a little. Davey looked away, very determinedly, taking his phone from his pocket and pretending to turn it on to airplane mode, even though he had already done that twenty minutes ago.

*

_As there always was when a new kid started midway through the year, there was a quiet mumble of chatter that preceded the arrival of Jack Kelly._

_If all of the rumours about him were true, he was an escaped juvenile delinquent who had murdered his last foster family in an attempt to get his hands on money to fuel his drug addiction._

_However, Davey was friends with Racetrack Higgins, and Race reliably informed him that no, his new adoptive brother was not a delinquent, nor was he a danger to any of them. Race had already met him a few times. Apparently, he was funny, and charming, and he had curly, dark brown hair. Apparently, he bit his nails, and he liked doing art, and his real name was Francis, but he preferred to be called Jack, and shit, Davey wasn’t supposed to know that! Medda had told them a week ago that Jack was going to help out backstage on the show, and maybe paint some of their backdrops._

_After school on the Monday Jack first arrived, Davey was sitting on the edge of the stage, lacing up his dance shoes. Behind him, Katherine and the girls were reciting the words to ‘All I Do Is Dream Of You’ in monotone as they tapped through the dance routine. Somewhere backstage, he could hear the junior playing Lina practicing her grating accent, to an underscore of Finch methodically playing through the piano accompaniment to ‘Make ‘Em Laugh’ at half-speed._

_Medda walked in through the aisle, waving at the gathered cast and crew, in various states of warm-up. Trailing behind her was a boy, with dark, curly hair, in jeans and a faded AC/DC t-shirt. He was looking down at the floor, like he was worried what he might see if he actually looked up at the kids onstage._

_Race barrelled out from backstage, jumping straight off the stage._

_‘Racetrack Higgins, use the stairs!’ Medda cried, but Race had already stopped listening._

_‘Sorry, Mama!’ He called, behind him, as he slung an arm around the new boy’s shoulders, and began talking to him, quietly._

_‘Good afternoon, everyone.’ Medda said, standing, her hands on her hips, in the centre of the aisle, scrutinising the stage._

_‘Afternoon, Miss Medda.’ The cast greeted her, some with cheery waves, others from where they were folded in half, stretching, on the floor._

_‘Before we begin, this is Jack.’ She gestured to the boy now hovering at her side, still half-talking to Race._

_Jack smiled, and gave a little wave. He had dimples in both cheeks, and a permanent little worried crease of a frown in between his eyebrows. Davey waved back at him, and gave what he hoped was a comforting smile._

_‘He’s going to paint us some sets.’ Medda continued. She fished her script from her bag, and began flipping quickly through it. ‘Now, if we take it from the scene before ‘Good Morning’?’_

*

‘Where are you off to, then?’

Davey looked up from his phone, to see Jack settling into his seat.

‘Rome.’ Davey answered, bluntly.

Jack just laughed. ‘No shit. You’re still goddamn annoying, Davey. How come you’re going to Rome?’

‘Next stop on the book tour.’ Davey answered. ‘They’ve just released a bunch of translations, so… Rome.’

‘Ah, of course.’ Jack nodded. A flight attendant walked past, and motioned for them to do up their seatbelts, which Jack did, tucking his phone and a pair of headphones into the little mesh holder on the back of the seat in front.

There was a moment of silence between them. Davey resigned himself to turning his phone off. He could only switch airplane mode on and off so many times before Jack looked over and asked what he was doing. He tucked his phone into his jacket pocket, and looked straight ahead, at the blank screen in the back of the seat in front. He could see his reflection in it, the dark creases beneath his eyes, the worry lines in his forehead. If he looked a little to the right, he could see Jack’s reflection in his own screen. He looked determinedly straight ahead.

‘I’m going on an artist’s residency.’ Jack said, rather proudly, answering a question Davey hadn’t wanted to ask, but had been desperate to all the same.

‘Really?’ Davey asked, unable to help himself. ‘You’ve wanted that forever, Jack, that’s amazing.’

‘Thanks.’ Jack said, half-returning his smile. ‘Being sponsored to do it, as well.’

Davey opened his mouth to respond, but, before he could, the safety announcement began to blare over the PA system.

Jack turned away, to look out into the aisle at the flight attendant demonstrating how to use the oxygen masks. Davey wondered if he could request to use his oxygen mask at any point during the flight. With eight and a half hours left sitting next to Jack, he was fairly sure he was going to need it.

*

_On the Friday after Jack first arrived, Davey was staying late in rehearsal, to practice his solo song. With just him, Medda, and Finch on the piano, the auditorium was wondrously empty, and he revelled in the way his voice echoed around the stage._

_‘Great job, David.’ Medda said, with a smile, as they finished._

_‘Thanks, Miss Medda.’ Davey replied, trying his hardest (and, probably, failing) to conceal just how much a compliment from Medda meant._

_‘That’s all for today. I’ll see you two on Monday.’_

_‘See you, Miss Medda.’ Finch said, collecting up his sheet music. ‘I’ll see you, Dave.’_

_‘See you later, Finch.’ Davey said, taking a long drink of water._

_He headed backstage, to take off his dance shoes and pick up his bag from the spot he had left it in the dressing room._

_Sitting cross-legged, beneath the gentle glow of the backstage lights, was Jack. He had a paintbrush tucked behind one ear, a pencil behind the other, and another paintbrush between his fingers, which he was using to mix a deep blue colour._

_‘That’s the billboard, isn’t it?’ Davey asked. ‘From the final scene?’_

_Jack looked up at him, that vague crease of a frown just barely there between his eyebrows. He smiled, just a little bit._

_‘Yeah, it is.’ Jack said. His voice was quiet, but not soft. He had the kind of voice that Davey could tell would rise above a crowd, that would command people’s attention, that would enrapture a party, that would make people laugh with ease._

_‘It looks amazing.’ Davey said. Almost without realising, he leant forwards, just a little, to get a closer look at the half-painted wood, at the faint pencil lines marking out the areas yet to be filled in with colour._

_‘Thank you.’ Jack said, and smiled. In the faint light of the wings, Davey could just make out the blush tinting his cheeks._

_‘I’m David.’ Davey said._

_‘I know.’ Jack replied._

_‘How do you - oh, Race.’ Davey smiled a little._

_‘Yeah.’ Jack said. ‘Also, you’re kind of the star of the show. Medda never shuts up about you at home.’_

_‘Oh.’ Davey said. He hoped that the dark of the wings would serve him well enough to disguise the blush that he knew was spreading right to the tips of his ears. From the way Jack was grinning, he got the impression that it wasn’t._

_‘You sounded really good.’ Jack said, with a gesture out to the stage with his paintbrush that sent splatters of paint everywhere. ‘Shit - sorry.’_

_‘It’s okay. Thank you.’ Davey said, wiping blue paint off where it had landed on his arm. ‘I, uh - I should be getting home.’_

_‘Okay.’_

_‘Uh - who do you sit with at lunch?’ Davey asked._

_Jack shrugged. ‘No-one, really. I usually come here and paint.’_

_‘Come sit with me on Monday?’ Davey said, and he hadn’t really intended for it to come out as a question, but it did all the same. ‘I sit with a bunch of the school newspaper kids, but they’re really nice, and loads of them do theatre as well, and - ’ Davey stopped short at the grin spreading across Jack’s face._

_‘I’d really like that.’ Jack said._

_‘Cool. Me too. Okay.’ Davey said, trying very hard to keep his voice even. ‘What do you have before lunch.’_

_Jack frowned and closed his eyes, like he was trying to picture his timetable._

_‘Art, maybe?’ He said, slowly. ‘Or biology. Or algebra.’_

_‘Are you in bio with Race?’ Davey asked._

_‘Yeah, I am.’ Jack opened his eyes again, still frowning._

_‘You have that before lunch, then.’_

_‘Oh. Thanks, Davey.’_

_‘Nobody calls me Davey.’_

_‘Sorry.’ Jack scratched the side of his face, with the hand holding his paintbrush, painting a bright blue smear across his temple. Davey bit back a smile._

_‘It’s okay. You can call me Davey, if you want.’_

_‘Okay.’_

_‘I’ll meet you outside biology on Monday?’_

_‘Okay, Davey.’_

_‘I’ll see you around.’ Davey said, and smiled._

_‘See you on Monday.’ Jack replied, and smiled back._

_*_

The moment the safety announcement finished, Davey stuck in his headphones and turned the volume up loud, putting a wrench in Jack’s plan to casually strike up a conversation.

Although, he supposed, he did have eight and a half hours left to talk to Davey. And a part of him figured that it wouldn’t exactly be easy to just dive straight back in to where they were three years ago.

The plane began to rumble along the tarmac, slowly, at first, coming to stop at the end of the runway. Jack could just about see through the window, just about see the lights along the edge of the runway, and tiny people on the tarmac, dressed in fluorescent orange vests.

Jack paused for a moment, and then quickly took out a sketchbook and pencil from his backpack. He looked down at the blank paper, tapping the pencil against the page. He looked around him. He looked at the people around him. A couple in row D, holding hands over the armrest. A teenager with their family in row B, headphones on, typing so fast on a phone that their thumbs blurred. An elderly woman in row F, already fast asleep, with a curved pillow around her neck. He looked out of the window again. He looked at Davey, eyes shut, breathing steadily through his nose, one hand on his thigh, tapping out an even rhythm.

_*_

_It had only been an hour and a half’s plane ride to DC, but, seeing as almost all of them were seniors, the school had deigned to pay for the school paper’s trip to a big journalism competition there._

_Fifteen high schoolers on a plane, however, was nothing less than absolute chaos. Race had already been reprimanded for clambering over the back of his seat to visit Albert in the aisle behind, Romeo was halfway through eating the ginormous Toblerone he had bought at duty-free, and Medda looked like she regretted agreeing to be the parent-chaperone._

_Sat next to Jack, Davey was almost shaking with nerves. Behind them, Katherine and Sarah were already making out. Jack was pretending not to notice._

_‘Jack, what if the plane falls?’ Davey asked, for the thousandth time._

_‘It won’t.’ Jack reassured him._

_‘What if - ’_

_‘Davey. I’m right here, the whole time. It’s gonna be okay.’_

_Davey looked at him, and a little of the panic seemed to melt away. Jack smiled at him, hopefully reassuringly._

_Davey tapped his fingers nervously on his tray the whole way through the safety announcements. When the flight attendant came to tell him to put his tray up, he looked as if she had told him he was going to have to pilot the plane himself._

_Jack lifted his hands gently off the tray, and held them, as he deftly put the tray up with his one free hand. Davey let his hands drop to his lap, and continued his tapping._

_The moment the plane started to move, Davey’s hand flew out, scrambling for Jack’s. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breaths shaky, but steady. Jack laced their fingers together, trying not to think about the lump forming in his throat at having Davey’s hand in his._

_*_

Jack looked out of the window again, and began to draw. Just quick lines at first, the angles of the runway, little stick figures where people were standing, a light wiggly line of the skyline, and an x-marks-the-spot where the sun was, low in the sky.

The body of the plane began to shudder beneath them again, as they picked up speed along the runway.

Davey’s hand flew out and gripped the armrest between them.

Jack stared down at it, and he was suddenly quite unable to breathe.

His stomach fell straight to the floor. Something told him that it was a little more than just the plane leaving the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u hadn’t guessed, davey was don lockwood and kath was kathy seldon in singin’ in the rain in high school. if u haven’t ever seen it then PLEASE at least look up some of the songs i mentioned they’re fantastic (and the song he’s practicing is the title song!)


	3. eight hours to landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello how are u? ive actually planned some stuff out so hopefully this all makes a bit more cohesive sense from now on

‘You okay, Davey?’ 

Davey cracked one eye open, looking sideways at Jack. He had a sketchbook open on his lap, and a pencil held loosely between his fingers. 

‘What do you care?’ Davey asked. He hadn’t really intended to say that, nor to say it with such venom, but now, it was out there, hanging in the space between them, and he wasn’t quite sure how to take it back. 

‘Whatever you might think, I do still care about you.’ Jack shot back, with a frown. 

Davey snapped his eyes shut again. Trust Jack to say the only thing that could possibly make him feel even worse right at that very moment. 

‘I’m fine.’ Davey said, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. He heard Jack exhale noisily, like he wanted to respond, but he said nothing. 

With a soft _ping_ , the fasten-seatbelts sign above them flicked off. Davey still didn’t open his eyes. All around him, he could hear the clicking of seatbelts unfastening. Beside him, he heard Jack undo his own seatbelt, and he felt him stretch out, nudging his elbow, ever so gently. The slight contact sent a shockwave through him. It took an immense amount of self-control to stay perfectly still, not to react to the electricity of Jack’s touch, not to rub at the spot where they had touched, to try and distil some of the feeling. Davey still didn’t open his eyes. He wondered if Jack had felt that same fizzling energy at the touch. 

He wondered if Jack had brushed against him on purpose. 

He felt, nauseatingly, as if he was back in high school, stealing glances at Jack across the lunch table, finding excuses to brush their fingers together, revelling in the sound of his laugh when they shared some long-forgotten inside joke. It made him cringe, just a little, to remember it, to remember his wide-eyed infatuation with his best friend. 

Jack had gone back to his drawing, his pencil moving in quick, achingly familiar scribbles. Davey had often wondered how his hand didn’t cramp, curled up like that as he shaded. His left arm was awkwardly positioned, so as not to nudge against Davey as he drew. 

Despite the niggling guilt in his stomach, Davey watched him draw. It had always brought him comfort, watching an entire picture form from the tip of Jack’s pencil, and he found that, even now, it filled him with no less awe than it had the very first time. It took barely a few minutes before the picture came together - the light grey lines quickly turning into the runway, a squiggle across the middle becoming the skyline, an x-marks the spot becoming the sun, somehow glowing with light, even in graphite. 

*

_’I’m leaving! You coming, Jack?’ Davey called from the hallway. He shrugged on a jacket from the coat rail, pretending not to notice that it wasn’t his own._

_‘Not tonight.’ Jack called back. ‘I gotta finish this.’_

_Davey grabbed his keys from the sideboard, and ducked into the living room._

_‘You sure you don’t - holy shit, Jackie.’ He stopped, staring at the canvas propped up in the centre of the room. It was still incredible to him that, after years of seeing Jack’s paintings, they never failed to stop him in his tracks, to draw him in, to mesmerise him. Almost without realising, he stepped closer, until he was standing behind Jack, leaning in to drink in the painting._

_The painting depicted a familiar scene - all of their friends, crowded into their apartment, spilling out onto the fire escape. The perspective of the painting made it seem as though, as the onlooker, you were hovering right in the middle of the party, and levitating a few inches in the air. The figures Jack had painted were angled so as to be unrecognisable, their facial features hidden, identifiable only by familiar traits that Davey, as their friend, could pick out. A figure holding a cup, with Katherine’s long nails curved around it. A blurred figure, leaning against the fire escape, blowing smoke rings like Race did. Two dancers, twined together, their faces hidden, but with their hands laced together and resting on one’s hip, in the exact way Specs and Romeo always stood._

_What left Davey feeling as though his lungs had been suddenly punctured, though, was the life with which the painting sparkled, full to the brim with movement and noise and texture and light, even in the two-dimensional brush strokes._

_‘You like it?’ Jack asked, looking up and over his shoulder at Davey._

_‘It’s amazing. Amazing isn’t even the word. Amazing doesn’t even begin to cut it.’_

_‘Yeah, yeah, no need to flatter me.’ Jack said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘It’s only a midterm project.’_

_‘This is what you’re doing for midterm projects?’ Davey asked, incredulous. ‘Is there any way they can, like, graduate you early or something? Surely they can’t teach you anything else.’_

_‘Right, now you’re just stroking my ego.’ Jack said, in that same dismissive tone, but there was a smile edging its way across his face._

_‘I’m not, and you know it.’ Davey said. In his pocket, his phone buzzed frantically. He pulled it out, to see no fewer than six texts from Crutchie._

**_have u left yetttttt_ **

**_ill start the shots without you_ **

**_mmmmmm teqila_ **

**_tequillla_ **

**_it’s hard to spell_ **

**_dvaid! hury up!!!!!_ **

_‘I’d better go.’ Davey said, waving his phone._

_‘Crutchie on tequila again?’ Jack asked, amused._

_‘Yep. They need a designated driver, so…’ Davey laughed a little._

_‘Okay. Have fun.’ Jack said, and dipped his paintbrush back into a navy blue coloured paint._

_‘You too. Don’t stay up too late.’_

_‘Shut up.’ Jack said. ‘Wait, is that my jacket?’_

_Davey looked down at himself, feigning surprise._

_‘Oh, is it?’_

_‘It looks good on you.’ Jack said, and Davey wondered if he was inventing the way his eyes trailed up and down him, as he spoke. ‘Denim suits you.’_

_‘Thanks.’ Davey said, slowly. ‘I, uh - I have class in the morning, so I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.’_

_‘Bye, Davey. Text me if you need anything.’_

_‘I know. See you later, Jackie.’_

*

Normally, by this point on a flight, Jack would have his headphones in, and be engrossed in some movie or specially-curated playlist. He had made a playlist just for this flight - full of songs that made him excited and dreamy and reminiscent - but right now, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but draw. 

He pretended not to notice the way Davey had angled his head downwards, so as to watch him draw in the least conspicuous way possible. He hated himself for thinking it, but it was sort of endearing, and horribly comforting to have Davey watch him as he drew. It made him itch to flip the page over and draw Davey, like he used to - little sketches in the margins of test papers in class, portrait studies curled up on the sofa while Davey wrote at the kitchen table, full oil paintings for assignments that he would make Davey sit for, blushing under the intensity of being studied for so long. 

He wondered, briefly, if he should say something to Davey. He considered ripping out the page when he was done, and handing it to him, considered leaving it in his bag, folded in half, his name signed in the bottom left hand corner. He tapped his pencil a few times on the page, not wanting to stop drawing. 

Or, rather, not wanting Davey to stop staring at him, even if it was only at his hands. 

He began to shade the skyline again, adding yet another level of dimension that it didn’t need. He drew a bird in the sky, just a silhouette. And then another, and another, until there was a whole flock of them hovering over the runway. 

He was saved from running out of ideas by the arrival of the dinner trolley, and a flight attendant asking him which meal option he wanted. He opted for spaghetti, and Davey asked for the vegetable lasagne. He realised, with a queasy turn of his stomach, that he hadn’t heard Davey speak so softly, with so little attack in his voice, in a very long time. He had almost forgotten the lull in his voice when he spoke quietly, the exact low tone of it. He had almost forgotten the vibration of it against his own mouth. That thought made him feel a little dizzy. 

He peeled off the protective layer over his spaghetti. He prodded it with a fork, and then with a fingertip. It was lukewarm. 

‘Ugh.’ Davey muttered, under his breath. Jack looked over, to see Davey performing a similar dissection of his food - only Davey had drawn the short straw out of the two of them. He was lifting up the top layer of his lasagne with a knife, stretching out the stringy Béchamel sauce on top of it. 

‘That looks awful.’ Jack said. Davey looked up at him, disgust on his face. 

‘I’m not eating this.’ 

‘I dare you.’ Jack said, with a gleam in his eye. 

‘Absolutely not.’ Davey shook his head. 

‘Go on. Just one bite. I’ll give you... ’ Jack stopped and looked around. ‘I’ll give you my bread roll.’ Davey eyed the roll suspiciously. 

‘How much do I have to eat?’ 

‘One full bite.’ Jack said, frowning and nodding thoughtfully. ‘Pasta, sauce, cheese, and vegetables included.’ 

‘Hm.’ Davey said, returning his mock-thoughtful frown. ‘Give me your bread roll and you have to eat some of the sauce as well.’

‘That wasn’t part of the deal!’ Jack protested. 

‘It is now.’ Davey smirked, just a little. 

‘Fine.’ 

‘Fine.’ 

‘Okay.’ Jack said. ‘Give me your fork.’

‘What?’ 

‘Give me your fork. I get to choose how much you get. Just to make sure it’s fair.’ 

‘Fine. Give me your fork.’

‘Fine.’ Jack swapped his fork for Davey’s, and pretended not to notice the way their fingers brushed together for a fraction of a second longer than was strictly necessary. 

Jack leaned over, just a little, to get at Davey’s tray. Davey watched, eyebrows raised, as he sliced off a chunk of the lasagna - all four layers, as promised. It took a little more effort than he had anticipated, and made an unpleasant squelching sound as it did. 

‘That’s way more than one bite!’ Davey protested.

‘It’s not! That’s a bite-sized piece.’ 

‘It’s fucking not.’ Davey hissed, through a laugh. Jack hadn’t heard Davey swear like that in a long time, so casually and jokingly. It sent a warm thrill through him, pulling him back almost a decade, to a time when that laugh underscored his entire life. Now, the only noise underscoring them was the light snoring of a bald-headed businessman asleep in the row in front of them, and the quiet fussing of a baby over on the other side of the plane. 

Jack watched as Davey, concentration etched in his frown, used his fork to scrape off Jack’s portion of sauce. With an expert hand, he managed to get almost the entire top layer of sauce piled onto the fork. A large droplet of it oozed down and fell onto the tray. 

Jack looked at Davey. ‘I have to eat that?’ 

‘Yep.’ Davey grinned, popping the ‘p’. 

Begrudgingly, they swapped forks. 

‘On three?’ Jack asked. Davey nodded. ‘Okay then. One. Davey, you have to count too!’ 

‘Fine, fine!’ Davey laughed. ‘One, two - ’

Jack closed his eyes and shoved the fork into his mouth. He covered his mouth the moment he did, forcing himself to swallow the glob of sauce. He was vaguely aware that Davey was laughing. 

He opened his eyes, still grimacing, to see Davey in stitches, his fork still full of food. 

‘You asshole!’ Jack said, his mouth falling open. ‘That was disgusting! And you didn’t even - ’

‘Your _face_.’ Davey laughed. ‘Okay, okay, fine. I’ll eat it.’

‘You fucking better.’ Jack said darkly, unscrewing his water bottle and taking a long drink, desperate to wash the taste from his mouth. 

Davey shut his eyes and shoved the fork into his mouth. 

‘Oh my god.’ He said, through his mouthful. ‘That’s disgusting.’ 

‘Close your mouth!’ Jack laughed. Davey grimaced, swallowed, and shuddered. 

‘That was awful. I hate you.’ Davey glowered. ‘Give me that.’ He grabbed Jack’s water bottle, and took a long drink. 

‘Your bread roll, as promised.’ Jack said, with a grin, handing over the roll. 

Davey tore the package open, continuing to glower at him as he spread it with butter and ate it in little pieces. 

*

_Davey always hated bunking classes, but, somehow, Jack had convinced him (for what felt like the millionth time) that compulsory PE was worth skipping. It was junior year, and they had more important things to do than to get knocked out by a dodgeball thrown by Spot Conlon._

_Sitting on the fire escape round the back of the school, in their gym shorts - just in case they got found out - and with a bag of pretzels between them, Davey supposed that this was when he did it. He had been trying for months, but telling Jack just seemed to be harder than anyone else._

_‘I was gonna ask Katherine to homecoming.’ Jack said, out of the blue. He threw a pretzel up in the air and caught it in his mouth, showing it proudly to Davey._

_‘Well done. And really? I thought she liked - uh, someone else.’ Davey said, stopping himself short._

_‘Oh, really?’ Jack said, but he didn’t look too disappointed. He shrugged. ‘She’s kind of out of my league anyway.’_

_‘Yeah, no shit.’_

_‘Fuck you.’ Jack laughed. Davey took a pretzel, and chewed it thoughtfully._

_‘You could ask Jenny?’ Davey suggested._

_‘Who, Jenny Rogers?’ Jack shook his head. ‘She likes Race, I think.’_

_Davey laughed, quietly, at that. As if Race would do more than glance in the direction of a girl._

_‘What about you, Dave?’ Jack asked, poking him in the side. ‘Surely there’s someone you like?’_

_‘I - nah, not really.’ Davey said._

_‘What about that girl from your chemistry class?’ Jack said, suddenly sitting up._

_‘She’s not really - ’_

_‘She definitely likes you, I’ve seen her looking at lunch.’_

_Davey tried not to think about why Jack had been paying attention to who was or wasn’t looking at him._

_‘I’m not really interested - ’ Davey tried again._

_‘I’ll ask someone who knows her.’ Jack nodded, thoughtfully._

_‘Jack, I’m gay.’ Davey said, a little louder than he had intended._

_The pretzel that Jack had just thrown up in the air missed his mouth, and hit the railings with a_ ping _._

_‘Oh.’ Jack said, quietly._

_They were both silent for a long moment._

_‘Is that all you’re gonna say?’ Davey said, nervously._

_‘I don’t know what else to say.’ Jack replied._

_‘Is it not okay?’_

_‘No, no, it’s fine!’ Jack said, tripping over his words. ‘I don’t, like, care, or anything. It’s cool.’_

_‘Okay.’ Davey nodded, and let out a deep breath. ‘Cool.’_

_‘Cool.’ Jack repeated. He held out the bag of pretzels to Davey._

*

‘What am I gonna eat now?’ Jack said, miserably, as the flight attendant cleared away their trays, still full of food. 

‘Didn’t you get anything at the airport?’ Davey asked, absently, rummaging through his bag. 

‘Didn’t have time.’

‘Oh.’ Davey produced a banana from his bag, then continued rummaging. His hand hit a large plastic packet. He paused for a moment, and bit his lip, then pulled the packet out. ‘Hey, I have pretzels.’ He said, waving it a little. 

Jack’s eyes widened. ‘No way. Davey, you’re amazing!’ 

Davey firmly ignored the stuttering of his heart. ‘I know, I know.’ He ripped open the bag and proffered it to Jack, who took a handful. 

He held up one with a gleam in his eye, and wiggled his eyebrows. 

‘Jack, don’t - ’

But before Davey could finish, Jack had thrown a pretzel up in the air, and caught it neatly in his mouth. He grinned at Davey, holding it in between his teeth, and, despite himself, Davey laughed. Jack crunched on the pretzel, still grinning. He took another, wiggling his eyebrows again, and then threw it up, much higher than he had thrown the first. 

Wide-eyed, Davey saw what was going to happen moments before it did. Jack’s throw was wildly off-course. They both watched as the pretzel soared through the air, into the row in front of them, and landed straight down on the forehead of the sleeping businessman in row D. He jerked awake, swatting wildly with his hands, and looking around him with a furious frown. 

Davey clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing too hard. Both of them ducked down, hiding from the view of the businessman, stifling their giggles. Jack’s hand had somehow landed on Davey’s forearm, holding on as he laughed. 

And, for a moment, it felt like normal again. It felt like they were back in tenth grade, backstage before a show, laughing together at some stupid inside joke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are what keep me writing! ur all always so kind and thank u if u have ever left me one and also if u leave one now. i love u.  
> blah blah im on tumblr @weisenbachfelded talk to me about this fic or leave a prompt


	4. seven hours to landing

It didn’t take long for them to collapse back into a mildly uncomfortable silence. The bag of pretzels stayed in the space between them, the armrest flipped up, but the barrier maintained by the snacks. 

Davey had his headphones in, and he was watching a movie on the little screen in the back of the seat in front. His eyes looked a little glazed over, like he wasn’t actually taking in any of the action happening on screen. He was resting with his elbow on the armrest on his other side - the side away from Jack. 

After what felt like hours - but, in reality, was probably barely thirty minutes, Davey sighed, and pulled his headphones out, leaning down to take some water out of his bag. Jack jumped at the opportunity. 

‘Good movie?’ Jack asked, motioning towards his screen. 

‘No.’ Davey said, and laughed, just a little. ‘It’s terrible. I don’t even know why I’m watching it.’ Jack knew that was a lie. More than that, he knew that Davey was watching it to avoid talking to him. 

Davey’s laugh quickly deflated, and he turned away again, but didn’t put his headphones back in, nor re-start his movie. He tapped his fingers against the armrest in between them. 

Jack could feel his heart rate speeding up, as if it could somehow get where it wanted to be, if it ran fast enough. He watched Davey’s face, watched the way his eyes flickered nervously, as if unable to come to rest.

‘Davey, I can’t do this.’ Jack said suddenly. He almost clapped a hand over his mouth, as if the words had tumbled out against his will. 

Davey turned to face him, very suddenly. ‘What?’ He said, worry sending his voice spiralling up an octave. Jack blinked, immediately regretful at his choice of words. He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut, could he? Although, it seemed to be a recurring theme for him that he had little autonomy when in such close proximity to Davey. 

‘I cant sit next to you a whole eight and a half hours and just pretend.’ Jack said. His heart was thudding so loudly and so fast, he was surprised his voice wasn’t trembling with the beat of it. ‘Can’t we at least catch up? It’s been three years, for God’s sake.’ 

For a long, terrible moment, Davey didn’t respond. He looked at Jack, straight in the eye, his gaze suddenly unwavering, but still full of fear, a deer in the headlights. Jack itched to reach out to him, to hold him, to soothe away that trembling fear he so recognised. 

‘I - yeah, okay.’ Davey said, finally, letting out a shaky breath. 

‘Okay.’ Jack said, and nodded, a little too enthusiastically. Davey seemed to relax, just a little. 

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Oh. Uh - ‘ Jack stammered. The fatal flaw in his plan was suddenly very clear. He hadn’t quite anticipated that they would get this far. ‘I’d ask how your family is, but I see Sarah pretty often, with Katherine.’ He said, with a shaky laugh. 

‘Yeah, I figured.’ Davey nodded. 

‘How’s… your brother?’ Jack said, brightly. 

‘Sibling.’ Davey corrected. 

‘Shit, sorry. Jesus, I really am out of the loop.’ Jack rubbed his forehead, as if that would somehow iron out the frustration and aching longing that was bubbling up within him. ‘How are they, anyway?’ 

‘Yeah, pretty good. They’re going to drama school in the fall, can you believe?’ Davey said. He had begun to smile, already, just at the mention of Les. 

‘They’re that old already?’ Jack asked, incredulous, counting the years on his fingers. ‘Wow, that makes me feel old.’

‘I know, right?’ Davey laughed, just a little. ‘They went to the Jimmy Awards a couple months back, got all the way through to the finals. Link Larkin in Hairspray.’ 

‘That’s fantastic. I can’t believe - ’ Jack stopped himself short. 

_I can’t believe I missed that_ , he had been about to say. 

*

_’Jesus Christ.’ Davey said, all on an out-breath, as he shut the front door behind him. The entire living room was an explosion of colour, and there was music blaring noisily from a little speaker on the sideboard._

_‘Language!’ Jack chastised him, not turning around._

_‘David’ Les cried, jumping up from where they were sitting, cross-legged on the floor, next to Jack._

_‘Hey, remember to put your brush down, first.’ Jack said, gently._

_‘Oh, yeah.’ Les put their paintbrush into the jam jar of water resting on the coffee table, and swished it around, cleaning it off. Jack turned the music down a little, then reached out and moved the jam jar backwards, so it was no longer close to falling off the edge._

_Les ran at Davey at full pelt, and it was only too late when he realised their overalls were covered in brightly coloured paint. Accepting defeat, Davey hugged his younger sibling tightly, and wondered how easy it would be to get paint out of the shirt he was wearing._

_‘Look at what we did!’ Les said, pulling back and grabbing his hand, dragging him over to the canvas set up in front of Jack._

_Jack had spread out an old sheet on the floor, which was covered in little flecks of brightly coloured poster paint. In front of the two of them was a big canvas, that Davey could see had once held a painting of Jack’s, but that had been painted over fresh white so that Les could use it. Les had painted a scene of a garden, complete with trees, flowers, and birds. In some parts, Davey could see that Jack had drawn faint pencil lines for Les to trace over, and he had shaded in parts of the grass a darker green._

_‘Do you like it?’ Les asked, eagerly, looking up at him._

_‘I love it, Les.’ Davey said, beaming. ‘I love the flowers.’_

_‘I did blue ones.’ Les said, proudly. ‘Blue is your favourite.’_

_‘Blue is my favourite. You’ll have to do me some more, some time. Would you do that?’_

_‘Definitely.’ Les said, nodding, a very serious expression on his face. Behind him, Jack was smiling, his dimples showing._

_‘If you’re all done, why don’t you go change your clothes?’ Davey said. ‘We can go get ice cream, if you want.’ Davey looked at Jack, who nodded, enthusiastically._

_‘Can I wear my stripy shirt?’ Les asked, head tilting to one side._

_‘You absolutely can.’_

_‘Okay!’ Les grinned, and raced upstairs._

_‘Les loves it when you paint together.’ Davey said, sitting down opposite Jack, cross-legged, to mimic him._

_‘I love it, too.’ Jack said, cleaning paint off his fingers with a cloth. ‘Kid’s got talent.’_

_Davey smiled at that, and nodded. ‘You want to throw your shirt in the wash?’_

_Jack looked down at his shirt, and at the large yellow splatter in the centre._

_‘That would be a good idea.’ He said, grinning. ‘We had a paint fight.’_

_‘Yeah, I can tell.’ Davey laughed. ‘Go borrow one of my shirts, I’ll throw yours in the machine and it’ll be done when we get back.’_

_‘Thank you, Davey.’ Jack said, drawing out the last syllable of his name. He rushed upstairs. Moments later, Davey heard Les shriek with laughter, and could only assume Jack had accosted them in yet another tickle-fight._

_‘Don’t get paint on the bedsheets!’ Davey yelled up the stairs. There was silence for a long moment, and then the two of them burst out laughing. Davey could only laugh too, heart fit to burst._

_With the two of them moving into their own apartment in the fall, Esther and Mayer were desperate that Davey spend as much time at home as they could wrangle that summer - and, where Davey went, Jack went too. Davey was working, part-time, and Jack often spent long days at the house, babysitting Les, watching movies with Sarah, or round the kitchen table with Davey’s parents._

_Les had taken the opportunity (egged on by Jack) to become a master artist, under Jack’s apprenticeship. Esther thought it was wonderful, and tacked up Les’ clumsy paintings next to Davey’s elementary school book reports and photos of Sarah winning races, in pride of place, on the fridge._

_It felt awfully normal, coming home to Jack. A part of Davey hated how normal it felt, hated that he let himself revel in the feeling of having Jack there, having Jack be his, having Jack blend in with his family like he had always belonged there, and like he always would. It wasn’t that he hated that Jack was there - quite the opposite - but rather than he simply allowed his feelings for him to mutate and manifest, to settle, to blend in. He hated that it felt so normal for him to love Jack, when Jack didn’t feel the same way. It made him feel selfish._

*

‘I bet I can find the video of them performing somewhere.’ Davey said. ‘I’ll send it to you - ’ he stopped himself, quite suddenly. 

‘I’ll get it off Sarah.’ Jack said, quietly. 

‘Yeah.’ Davey breathed. ‘Uh - so, an artist’s residency, huh?’

Jack grinned, unable to help himself. ‘Yeah. It’s a commission - well, kind of. This museum is sponsoring me to go stay in Rome for a couple weeks, I get a studio, and an apartment, and in return, they get to put on an exhibition of the stuff I do here.’ 

‘That sounds amazing.’ Davey said. ‘Do you know what you’re gonna paint, yet?’ 

‘Not a clue. Maybe something to do with the architecture?’ Jack shrugged. ‘I just think I’ll know, when I get there. When I get a feel for it.’ 

Davey sighed, wistfully. ‘Sounds much better than a book tour. Moving around all the time, interviews and signings and all that.’ 

‘Sounds busy. You hate busy.’ 

‘It is. And I do.’ Davey laughed, but the sound was a little hollow. ‘It’s worth it, though. For the time I get to spend writing.’ 

‘I’ve read your books.’ Jack said, suddenly. Davey turned, surprised

‘Really?’ He asked. He wasn’t quite sure why he expected him not to have - especially considering he had been one of the first to read that very first manuscript of his first book, way back in college. 

‘Yeah, all three of them.’ Jack replied. ‘Don’t sound so surprised!’

‘I’m not! I just... I don’t know. I wouldn’t have expected you to.’

‘It was pretty hard to ignore when your name was in the window of every bookstore around.’ 

Davey didn’t reply to that. What did that mean? He imagined Jack in a bookstore, surrounded by copies of his books, and wondered what it had made Jack feel. Angry? Resentful? Or - though Davey pushed the thought away with all his might - did it make Jack regretful? Wistful, even, for what might have been? 

‘I liked _Childlore_ the best.’ Jack continued. 

‘Really? That’s my favourite one, too.’ Davey said, tilting his head, a little intrigued. That had been a personal one. Moreover, it had been the first he had written without Jack at his side, without Jack on the sofa beside him, without Jack, painting, to the sound of his keyboard clicking, without Jack peering over his shoulder, unable to read off of the screen, and asking him, still, what he was writing about, setting down a cup of tea and a grilled cheese beside him. 

‘Yeah, I could tell.’ Jack said, surprising Davey even more. 

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. Just, when I was reading it, I could tell it was the one you would’ve loved writing the most. There were more bits I highlighted in that one, as well.’ Jack closed his eyes, very briefly, as though he hadn’t quite meant to say that. 

‘You still highlight them?’ Davey asked, softly. 

‘’Course I do.’ Jack shrugged. 

Davey opened his mouth, and then closed it again. _I’d like to see the bits you highlighted,_ he had been about to say. But that would imply that they were going to see each other at all after they landed in Rome, and Davey was determined that that would not be happening. 

‘I would’ve thought you would like _Arise, My Love_ the best. It’s your kind of thing, I think.’ Davey said. What he didn’t say was that he had written it with Jack in mind, written it with the inspiration of Jack’s art, written it with the wonder if it would inspire Jack’s art. 

‘Oh, I did. I just liked _Childlore_ even more. And I’ve only managed to read _Arise, My Love_ once, so far, though.’ Jack said, a little sheepishly. Davey found himself suddenly crushed beneath the knowledge that Jack read and reread his books. He couldn’t quite breathe, couldn’t escape from underneath, let alone decide what to do with this knowledge, or decide how he felt about it. 

‘I mean, it’s pretty new.’ Davey said, with a half-smile. ‘I’ve only read bits of it since it was published.’ 

‘What does the dedication mean?’ Jack asked. Davey let out a little breath of laughter. How odd, that, just a few hours before, he had read that same dedication, and thought it ridiculous, pretentious, self-indulgent. 

_To all those I have loved, and who have loved me (you know who you are)._

‘It means the same as the book means.’ Davey said, with a shrug. 

‘And what does the book mean?’ Jack pressed. His questioning felt so familiar, so warm and safe, and Davey thought, for a moment, that it would be terribly easy to fall back into it without a single hesitation. 

‘What do you think it means?’ Davey asked. 

‘If you tell me it’s up to the reader’s interpretation - ’

Davey laughed. ‘No, no. I just - ’ he paused, and sighed. ‘It’s about accepting love and receiving love and giving love.’ 

‘And about giving love even unintentionally.’ Jack added, almost without thinking. 

Davey looked at him. ‘Yeah, kind of.’ 

‘What do you mean, ‘kind of’?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think of that as the main point. But if it is to you, then maybe I should.’ Davey suddenly found himself on edge, worried that he was going to give away far more than he wanted to. 

‘What the fuck does that mean?’ 

Davey just shrugged. 

‘God, you’re so cryptic.’ Jack leaned back into his seat, his smile seeming a thousand miles away. 

‘I can’t give away all my secrets. I’d have nothing left to write about.’ 

‘That’s true, I guess. You’ve told me more than you’ve ever told a reporter, so I’ll count myself lucky.’ 

Davey wondered, absently, just how many more surprises like this Jack was going to spring on him in the seven hours left of the flight. 

‘You read my interviews?’ 

‘Yeah, a couple. The New York Times one was good.’ 

‘Yeah, they asked good questions. That photoshoot though…’ Davey grimaced. It really had been awful. 

‘Really? I liked the floral print.’ Jack said, biting back a smirk. 

‘You’re hilarious. Really.’ 

*

_Jack placed a sandwich and a cup of tea down onto the table next to him. Davey didn’t looked up, fingers flying across the keyboard, completely unaware of anything happening around him._

_Jack waited, patiently, one hand resting on the back of Davey’s chair, sipping his own tea, and watching words pour out onto the screen. The brightness was up far too high, and the writing far too small, for him to be able to read it, especially while Davey was still typing so quickly. Nevertheless, he stood, and he watched, nothing less than mesmerised._

_It was times like these that made him understand just why Davey liked watching him paint so much. He had found it rather confusing at first, wondering why someone would want to commit hours to staring at him throwing paint at a canvas in misshapen blobs, to form a picture that wouldn’t come together for weeks to come. But, watching Davey, he could understand it. The rhythmic tapping of the keyboard, the way Davey’s fingers darted around, the way he would glance, quickly, down at his hands, and then up at the screen again. The way that, when he made a mistake, he would frown, and hit the backspace key several times, hard. That sound always made Jack smile, even when he heard it from across the room._

_And, as much as it made his stomach squirm, as much as it made his heart pound in fear, he loved watching Davey because he was Davey. He thought, sometimes, that he could watch Davey tie his shoelaces for hours on end, and not get bored. The way that Davey’s eyes narrowed, just a little. The way he squinted at the screen, the way he bit his lip, the way he sighed when he was frustrated, the way his mouth tugged up at the corners, a tiny bit, when he wrote something he was particularly proud of._

_He was smiling like that now, slowly, and thoughtfully, his typing speeding up until it ground to a definitive halt, and he tapped the full stop key with a proud jab._

_‘You gonna take a break, now?’ Jack asked, seizing the opportunity._

_‘I should. I want to. I’m so worried I’m gonna lose the thread, though.’ Davey said, rubbing his eyes with his hands. ‘Oh, my god. You brought me food! I love you. Oh, my god.’ He grabbed the sandwich, and took a huge bite, letting his eyes flutter shut._

_‘You’re welcome.’ Jack laughed, so used, by now, to the mess of Davey’s mind when he lifted himself out of a writing stupor. ‘Do you mind if I - ?’ He said, motioning to the laptop._

_‘No, go ahead.’ Davey pushed the laptop sideways, and Jack leaned over his shoulder to look at it. He turned the brightness down, and hit a few keys, changing the text colour, the line spacing, and the background colour, until he could just about read Davey’s writing. He read the last paragraph, the part that had brought that smile to Davey’s face. By the time he was through, Davey had finished his sandwich, and had the mug of tea in both hands._

_‘What do you think?’ Davey asked, biting his lip again._

_‘I mean, you know I think it’s amazing.’ Jack said._

_‘Yeah, yeah.’ Davey rolled his eyes._

_‘What does - ’ Jack zoomed in, just a little, and pointed at a line near the end ‘ - this mean?’_

_‘It’s about her being afraid.’ Davey said. ‘It’s a metaphor.’_

_‘Yeah, right, I get that.’ Jack nodded. ‘It does a good job of describing it. But why is she afraid?’_

_‘She’s - it’s - ’ Davey frowned, thinking. ‘She’s afraid of what she knows about her brother.’_

_‘Right, but what does it mean?’ Jack asked, again._

_Davey turned around, craning his neck to look up at Jack. He smiled, that wry half-smile that Jack could never quite decipher._

_‘You’re so annoying.’ He said, shaking his head._

_‘You know what I mean, though. You know what I’m trying to get you to do.’_

_‘I know exactly what you mean.’ Davey laughed. ‘You’re fantastic, Jack.’_

_For a moment, they looked at each other, and Jack smiled. It would be so easy, he thought, very briefly, to lean down and press their mouths together._

_Only, it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be easy at all. Jack drew back, quickly, and took a shaky breath in, desperately trying to clear his mind of all thoughts of Davey and his stupid fucking eyes, and his wry half-smile. Davey turned back to his keyboard, and Jack heard him press the backspace key a few, noisy times._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooh things are coming together! i lvoe love love writing this and i also love talking about it! u can find some stuff about it in my ‘ayab’ tag on tumblr @weisenbachfelded  
> leave a comment! i appreciate every single damn one. y’all are amazing


	5. six hours to landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! this fic stagnated for a couple days but im back w a vengeance  
> in the meantime i wrote a real epilogue to in a week so.... go check it out!

_Davey looked awfully pretty, Jack thought, for the very first time, standing in the wings on the first night of their senior year musical._

_The very thought shook Jack to his core. Try as he might, he couldn’t shrug it off. Davey had grown his hair a little longer, and it hung around his ears in curls. Rather than looking unkempt, though, it looked effortlessly messy. With fake blood blossoming across the front of his white shirt, and dirt smeared across his face, he should look anything but pretty. But he did. He had eyeliner on, dark around his eyes, making them shine even more than they usually did. His red jacket was slightly loose, a hand-me-down from the prop cupboard, a little too broad in the shoulders._

_Jack cheered with the rest of the crowd as the final note rung out in the auditorium, as the cast stepped forward one by one to take their bows. He yelled extra loudly when Kath stepped forwards, shining with pride, and when Race did, too._

_When Davey came to the front to take his bow, he screamed himself hoarse. Davey, for just a moment, looked to the side, straight to where he was standing in the wings. Jack realised, suddenly, that Davey knew he was there. Had he been stealing glances at him the entire show? Davey smiled at him, and Jack felt his chest constrict uncomfortably. This didn’t feel right._

*

Jack went back to his sketching, turning over a new page to begin a neater re-draw of the sun over the runway.

Davey, in the meantime, took a book out of his bag, and cracked the spine, just like he always used to. Jack watched out of the corner of his eye, as he set the book down on his tray, and then went back into his bag. He withdrew a small black glasses case - and hang on, since when did Davey wear glasses?

Before Jack could even begin to get his head around what was happening, Davey was cleaning the lenses of a pair of round, dark brown-rimmed glasses, putting them on, and snapping the case shut again. 

Jack forgot quite how to breathe. 

‘You, uh - ’ Jack swallowed. ‘You got glasses.’ 

‘Hm?’ Davey looked up at him, over the top of his glasses. Jack thought he might pass out. ‘Yeah, finally. Turns out staring at a screen and writing all day is bad for your eyesight. Shocking, I know.’

Jack could only nod, as Davey gave a little smile, and then went back to his book. 

Every single bit of this was nothing but unfair. It was unfair that he had to sit next to Davey. It was unfair that he was wearing a suit that fit him unfairly well, with only his top button undone, a tantalising reminder of what was most certainly not going to be. It was unfair that Davey could hardly look at him. It was unfair that he obviously didn’t really want to talk to him. 

And it was _so fucking unfair_ that Davey wore glasses now. It was unfair how hot they made him look - and not even, like, a nerdy kind of hot, but just straight-up hot. It was unfair how Davey looked at him over the top of the frames, his eyes still that same grey-blue that would never stop leaving Jack utterly breathless. 

Jack looked determinedly down at his sketch, concentrating very hard on shading the sky. And if he snuck the occasional glance up at Davey… well, he was far too engrossed in his book to notice. 

*

_Davey looked awfully pretty, Jack thought, and felt a little sick._

_From where he was sitting on the sidelines, a white plastic cup of punch in one hand, there was only one place his gaze would go, and that was in Davey’s direction._

_He was twirling Katherine around, his image shifting under the coloured lights, laughing so hard he could hardly stand up straight. Jack knew that the corners of his eyes would be crinkling as he smiled._

_From across the gymnasium, he could see Sarah looking at the pair of them too, with a soft smile on her face. Every so often, Katherine would look over at her, and smile, or blow her a dramatic kiss. Sarah would catch it in one hand, and press it to her heart._

_They were awfully happy, Katherine and Sarah. Sure, they didn’t want to risk dancing together at senior prom, and they didn’t hold hands in the hallways, or when they walked near Katherine’s father’s house, but they were happy. When all of them went out of town, they would join together like magnets - one arm around a waist, or both looped around the other’s neck; hands held, kisses shared, revelling unabashedly in the freedom they had._

_He saw Davey looking at them, often, wistful and longing. It wasn’t a rare occurrence to find Davey on his doorstep, looking like all the energy had been knocked out of him. Jack would know, then, that Katherine was round at his house, and it was just too much for Davey to be around them. He didn’t quite understand what it was that Davey felt, but he sat with him all the same, a rigid six inches between them on the sofa._

_Or, perhaps, he understood completely. Perhaps that was what made him feel so sick, when he looked at Davey beneath the lights at senior prom, in a suit jacket that was a little too big for him around the shoulders, and Jack thought he looked pretty all the same._

_But Davey wasn’t pretty. He didn’t think Davey was pretty. He wasn’t meant to think that._

_Except, maybe he did. Maybe Davey was a lot more than just pretty._

_But boys weren’t supposed to be, and, even if they were, Jack wasn’t supposed to notice that. It all felt so unfair_. 

*

‘Good evening, this is your captain speaking.’ 

Davey looked up from his book at the sound of the voice over the PA system. Jack looked over at Davey, and at the way he was searching for a source of the voice, without even noticing. 

‘It is currently 11:15 p.m in New York City,’ the captain continued, ‘and 4:15 a.m in Rome. We have approximately six hours and five minutes left of our journey. For now, the cabin lights will be going down. We ask you to respect others who may wish to sleep at this time, and keep noise to a minimum. Goodnight for now.’ 

The captain repeated the message in Italian, which Davey listened to just as attentively. Jack had half-forgotten that Davey could speak Italian. He wondered, absently, if he might get to hear him speak it, once they landed, but couldn’t quite think up a situation in which they wouldn’t go their separate ways the minute they stepped off the plane. 

Davey closed his book and took off his glasses. Jack mourned the loss for a brief moment, looking discreetly sideways as Davey rubbed his eyes, yawned, and then put his book and glasses back into his bag. He took out a jumper and rolled it up, wedging it beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. 

Jack blinked himself back into the moment, and then bent down to retrieve his sweatpants and sleep shirt from his bag. As he zipped it back up, he knocked Davey’s side with his elbow. 

‘Sorry!’ Jack said, hurriedly stowing his bag back beneath his seat. 

‘’S’fine.’ Davey mumbled, sleepily. ‘You’re changing to sleep?’ 

‘Yeah. Aren’t you?’ Jack asked. From behind him, someone shushed him loudly, which made Davey smile. 

‘I didn’t bring anything.’ Davey shrugged. 

‘But you’re wearing a suit!’ Jack protested. 

Davey shrugged again. ‘Publishing company likes it. Good for the image, in case I get recognised. Or whatever.’

‘I’ve never understood why people wear suits on flights. It must be so uncomfortable.’

‘Yeah. Me neither.’

‘Well. Suit yourself.’ Jack said, and grinned. Davey smiled, just a little, and, somehow, that felt like progress. 

*

_‘What the fuck is ‘smart casual?’ Jack cried._

_Davey stuck his head around the door, and laughed._

_‘Can’t find an outfit?’_

_‘What do you think?’ Jack said, deadpan, gesturing around him. His clothes were scattered all across the room, tossed haphazardly over the bed._

_Davey, ever patient, came and stood next to him, looking down at where he was sitting on the floor. Jack looked up at him._

_‘How do you look so good?’ Jack wailed, and put his head in his hands. Davey looked down at himself, like he was surprised to find himself wearing what he was wearing._

_‘Let me find something.’ He said, and gave Jack a reassuring pat on the shoulder._

_He began picking up clothes from where they were scattered across the room, folding some up to put away in the wardrobe. Jack watched him, silently, as he did so. He was wearing a pale blue shirt beneath his black suit jacket - the same one, Jack realised, that he had worn to prom. He had filled it out, now; it wasn’t so loose in the shoulders, and he no longer had to roll the cuffs up to fit. He still looked awfully pretty._

_A white t-shirt hit Jack square in the face. He picked it up and smoothed it out. He’d forgotten he even owned it. It was soon joined by a pair of plain black dress pants, that he had never taken a liking to, but kept all the same._

_‘Hey, isn’t this - ?’ Davey said, holding up a white t-shirt, with a Columbia emblem across the front._

_‘I’m sorry!’ Jack said. ‘I meant to give it back to you, I just - ’_

_‘It’s fine.’ Davey began folding it up. ‘It looks better on you anyway.’_

_Jack blushed, and looked away. He felt a familiar rolling wave of nausea, a familiar constriction of his chest. He was nervous, that was all._

_‘Aha!’ Davey said, finally, holding up a suit jacket with thin white checks on it._

_‘Really?’ Jack asked, apprehensively._

_‘Trust me on this one.’ Davey said, nodding. ‘I am gay, after all.’_

_Jack just nodded in return, and headed into the bathroom to change. When he returned, Davey looked him up and down, and smiled approvingly._

_‘Tuck your shirt in.’ Davey instructed, and handed him a belt. Jack did so._

_Davey held out his jacket, and Jack slipped his arms in. Davey pulled it over his shoulders, then came around to his front to smooth down the lapels. His hands lingered, perhaps, just a fraction of a second longer than was necessary, almost as if he was thinking, considering._

_‘Good?’ Jack asked, nervously._

_‘Perfect.’ Davey said, and stepped back to look at him. ‘Are they taking photos?’_

_‘I don’t know.’ Jack said, frowning suddenly. ‘I’m still only a student.’_

_‘A student headlining an exhibition.’ Davey added._

_‘Maybe? They said there would be a couple of press people.’_

_‘This is so exciting, Jackie.’ Davey grinned at him. ‘Got your phone?’ Jack turned to take it off the sideboard._

_‘Got my wallet.’ Jack said, patting his trouser pocket. ‘Do you have the keys?’_

_‘Yeah, I do. Unless you think you’ll be coming home separately?’_

_Jack paused for a moment. Davey was asking him if he was going to hook up with someone tonight. Tactfully, yes, but all the same, it made Jack’s chest feel awfully hollow in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Besides, his own very first exhibition opening didn’t seem like quite the right place hook up with someone._

_‘Nah.’ Jack said, all on an out-breath. ‘I’ll come home with you.’_

_‘Okay.’ Davey smiled. ‘Let’s go.’_

*

Jack stared at himself in the tiny airplane bathroom mirror. How the fuck had he messed up this bad? 

Would it really be so bad to sleep in the same shirt he’d been wearing for the last fourteen hours? 

Yes, he decided, it would. Also, then, Davey might realise that, and think he was gross and weird, and definitely wouldn’t talk to him for the rest of the flight. 

But really? He could have brought any t-shirt at all, and he chose Davey’s old Columbia one? 

It was still way too big for him, the sleeves coming down almost to his elbows, the collar loose and wide around his throat. It had long since lost that lingering scent of Davey, but had retained the deep, painful, aching sensation that Jack got whenever he thought about Davey. 

He took a deep breath, splashed some cold water on his face, and went back to his seat. Davey, to his quiet relief, was fast asleep. 

It was evident that he had, at first, fallen asleep facing the window - or, rather, facing away from Jack. His rolled-up jumper was still on his left shoulder, but in his sleep, he had switched sides, so he was facing towards Jack. He had taken off his suit jacket and his shoes, and his legs were tucked up beneath him. He could never sleep with his legs stretched out, Jack remembered, especially while sitting up. 

Jack sat down, very carefully, so as not to disturb Davey. At least they wouldn’t have to address the whole Jack-wearing-Davey’s-old-shirt thing just yet. Jack put his old clothes into his bag, and picked his sketchbook back up again. He felt horribly guilty as he did so, but he had to do something, anything, to quell the itch to draw Davey again that had been scraping incessantly at his insides for the last few hours. 

He angled himself sideways, so he could look at Davey, and draw without nudging him by accident. 

It was is very easy to fall back into the rhythm of drawing Davey. There was a time, not very long ago, when his sketchbook was filled with drawings of him, with studies of his eyes, his nose, his mouth, the curve of his smile, the way he twisted his hands together when he spoke, the way they flew across the keyboard when he wrote. 

And then, just a page turn away, were full sketches, familiar poses - Davey on the sofa, a pencil behind his ear, a book open in his hands, his feet tucked beneath him. Davey at the bar, opposite some stranger, a hand on his shoulder. Davey at the kitchen table, with a hangover, coffee in hand. Davey cooking dinner, an apron round his waist, mid-dance, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon. 

He began to draw Davey with a practiced, familiar kind of ease. The slope of his nose, the curve of his brow, the round-ness of his closed eyes. It was only when he reached the details that Jack began to realise that familiarity would no longer suffice. His jaw, now, was less curved, and more angular, than it had been last time Jack had drawn him. There were new creases by his eyes, darker shadows beneath them. His cheekbones looked somehow sharper, like they had been hollowed out more. He had a faint trace of stubble across his jaw, that, long ago, Jack would have teased him for not being able to grow. 

A part of Jack was aching to snap the sketchbook shut, to resign himself to the fact that he no longer knew the person sleeping next to him, even in the most basic of ways. 

Instead, he turned over a new page, and begins the drawing again. He drew a closer study of him, paying even more attention to the differences in his physicality, even in the way his shoulders slumped. He began to learn, just a little, the person sleeping next to him. 

*

_Jack was somewhere across the room, talking to a reporter. Davey seized the opportunity to look round, properly. It was just two rooms, one fairly big and the other very small, both with plain white walls, a selection of Jack’s artwork hanging up._

_Davey lingered by a few, skipping over the ones he had seen before, that he had watched Jack paint, that he had seen morph from pencil skeletons to a fully-fledged masterpiece in oil paint._

_He caught Jack’s eye from across the room, and flashed him a thumbs-up. Relief flooded Jack’s face, and he gave him a shaky smile before carrying on talking to the reporter._

_Davey made his way into the second room, to the paintings he had seen only briefly before Jack was swept away by people far more important than he was. The paintings were all in black and white and grey, and all portraits, of people Davey didn’t recognise. They were all seen from odd angles - from above, from behind, from the side so that just a nose was visible, from down at their feet, so that you could only see their chin._

_There were more than Davey could count - it was intended to be an experience, Davey remembered Jack explaining. You were supposed to look at them as a whole, not individually. That didn’t stop Davey from going close to almost every one, trying to figure things out. He realised that a few had colour in them, and those which did were ones he recognised._

_Medda’s hands, in the kitchen at Jack’s house as she cooked, with just the pink of the beads on her bracelet. Katherine’s hair, the greyscale mixed with orange to give the faint impression of her auburn curls. Crutchie’s feet, perched on the step of their wheelchair, with just the green of their laces. Specs from almost-behind, angled so that just the brown of their glasses was visible._

_The painting that struck Davey the most, though, was the one of him. He didn’t quite know what to make of it - was he even supposed to know it was here? Was he even supposed to know it was of him?_

_But there he was, undeniably him, just a strip of his face visible, the only colour in the photo his eyes, a soft, stormy blue-grey. He didn’t know why, but, somehow, this painting felt different. It felt like it had been painted with a different intention, a different feeling to the rest of them._

_It was, Davey supposed, because it was of him. Naturally, it felt different to the rest. Later, he would ask Katherine if she had felt the same looking at the painting of her, and she would tilt her head sideways, not quite answering the question he had asked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life is kind of crappy right now! so any love is doubly appreciated as are asks and stuff on tumblr (@weisenbachfelded)!  
> anyway freshman davey was lumière in beauty and the beast, junior davey was sky in mamma mia, and senior davey was enjolras in les mis. no i don’t take criticism.


	6. five hours to landing

When Davey woke up, the plane was dark. The only real light came from the little lights along the sides of the aisle, and from the screen of the person sitting in front of him, a bright slit in the gap between the side wall of the plane and the seat. He couldn’t have been asleep for long, he thought, because the person in front had been watching that same movie when he had fallen asleep. 

He most certainly wasn’t in the same position he had been when he fell asleep, though. His jumper had unrolled itself and trickled down his shoulder, and he had half-turned himself, rather uncomfortably, until he was facing Jack. 

Jack, who was asleep, his head lolling on his shoulder, mouth slightly open. He was drooling a little. He had changed into sleep clothes, and he was wearing - hold on a second. 

Davey leaned forwards to get a better look at the front of Jack’s shirt. It was rumpled and the front emblem slightly obscured and faded with age, but, clear as day, there it was. Jack was wearing Davey’s old Columbia shirt. From the looks of it, he had worn it often. Davey sat back in his seat, resting his head all the way back. Try as he might, he could already feel his heart hammering against his ribs, faster and faster, utterly relentless. 

He looked over again. Jack looked ever so peaceful, fast asleep. The tension had dropped from his shoulders, the worry lines on his forehead that, no doubt, Davey had caused had dissipated. His pencil was still balanced in his hand, resting in the curve between his left thumb and forefinger. His sketchbook was open, and, though it was dark, Davey could clearly make out the pencil drawing he had done. 

It had been a long, long time since he had seen himself drawn in pencil like that. There was a time, he knew, when drawings just like that were littered around the apartment, racked up on the fridge with magnets, torn out of sketchbooks, crumpled in the wastepaper basket. Seeing it again sparked a familiar dull ache in his chest. 

Beside him, Jack shifted, knocking his sketchbook out of his lap and dropping his pencil. Davey caught them both almost without thinking, in one deft motion, and set them down on Jack’s tray. Jack’s hand, now empty, searched for something to grasp onto. Finally, it reached Davey’s arm, and settled there, just resting on top of his forearm. Jack have a contented little sigh, and his head dropped down even further, coming to rest on Davey’s shoulder. 

Just a few hours earlier, Davey would have been mortified to find himself in such a position. Now, though, he found himself harbouring an odd kind of hope, that, perhaps, Jack’s subconscious was giving away some kind of underlying desire. Perhaps this was some kind of indication that all was not entirely lost between them. 

Ever so gently, adamant not to disturb Jack, Davey retrieved his phone from his pocket. Great. He had hardly been asleep for more than an hour. He stowed his phone away again, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. Or, rather, tried not to think about the fact that Jack was as close to curled around him as he could be on an airplane, thirty thousand fucking feet in the air. 

*

_Loathe as he was to admit it, Davey was kind of jealous of Jack. When your best friend was actually having to turn down offers to display his artwork, it was sort of hard not to be._

_He told Jack as such, as plain as he could, one night, over takeaway pizza, with a movie neither of them was watching playing in the background._

_‘I graduate in six months, Jack. Everyone else has interviews and jobs and internships at big papers and journals lined up.’ Davey said, trying hard not to sound as miserable as he felt._

_‘You had that one at the World.’ Jack reminded him, through a mouthful of Hawaiian pizza. ‘Surely that’s a foot in the door.’_

_‘I hated it there.’ Davey said, quietly, looking straight at the TV, and determinedly not at Jack. ‘I hated the people, and the office, and the writing.’_

_‘Oh, Davey.’ Jack breathed. ‘Why didn’t you say?’ Davey could tell that he was looking at him. He didn’t look back._

_‘I don’t know.’ Davey said. ‘I thought it was what I wanted to do. And now…’ he trailed off._

_‘You don’t have to do it.’ Jack said, gently._

_‘What the fuck else am I supposed to do with a degree in journalism?’ Davey said, throwing his hands in the air. He slumped down again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.’_

_‘It’s okay.’ Jack said, with a small smile. ‘There’s loads you could do. I’ve read the other stuff you write, and you could easily make a career out of that.’_

_Davey scoffed. ‘That’s just me writing what I want. It’s not anything that’ll make money.’_

_‘It’s really good, Davey.’ Jack hesitated a moment, and then continued. ‘It’s kind of better than the articles you write.’_

_‘What?’ Davey frowned._

_‘I mean, sure, your journalism writing is brilliant.’ Jack shrugged. ‘The stuff you write on your own is just better.’_

_‘Better?’ Davey asked._

_‘More personal. I mean, obviously. But, like,’ Jack broke off, and sighed, searching for the words, ‘it’s just something special, you know? It’s not like anything I’ve ever read before.’_

_Davey buried his face in his hands. ‘I just don’t know, Jack.’ He said, into his palms._

_‘You don’t have to.’ Jack said. He shifted a little closer to Davey, and placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on his back. ’All I know is you’re the best damn writer I’ve ever met. And you’ve got a dozen novels already part-written.’_

_Davey thought of the notebooks under his bed, of the dozen ideas for novels Jack didn’t even know about, the ones that nobody did. He had always been afraid, he thought, that they might amount to anything. Or, rather, he had been afraid to try. Afraid to spill his soul on a page and have it rejected. That was why he had turned to journalism - rigid rules and cold, hard facts, no room for his own emotions. But perhaps Jack was right. Perhaps there was something in there._

*

A jolt of turbulence shocked Jack awake. He blinked, heavily, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and to the quiet thrum of the airplane engine. Immediately, his gaze turned to Davey, still fast asleep, with his head turned sideways. Jack’s hand, he realised, was resting on Davey’s forearm. 

His sketchbook had been placed on the tray in front of him, his pencil behind it, so that it wouldn’t roll off. God, that was such a Davey thing to do. Several realisations hit Jack at the same time, like freight trains coming at him from every direction imaginable. 

First, that Davey had been awake, not too long ago. That felt… neutral, he supposed. 

Secondly, that Davey must have already seen his Columbia shirt, and passed judgement on it. That didn’t feel all too good. 

Thirdly, that Davey hadn’t moved out of his way when he had fallen asleep meant against him. The hand on Davey’s forearm had been holding the pencil. Davey must have been awake to move the pencil. Davey must have been awake when Jack moved, in his sleep, to hold onto him. And Davey hadn’t moved away. That felt - well, in all honesty, that felt all at once terrifying and exhilarating. 

The final, and most frightening, of the realisations, was that Davey had seen that drawing. Davey had picked up the sketchbook, and seen a drawing of him, in plain grey pencil. Had he leafed through, seen the others? Surely not. Even if he had, it was far too dark for him to have seen the details. Still, it filled Jack with a sickening dread that Davey might have seen even an inkling of Jack’s heart through the drawing. 

Jack looked at it again. Was it obvious? That every line forming Davey’s familiar side profile was a labour of love, that every graphite mark was at once a regret, a wish, a desire, a question? He hoped not. And yet, he wondered if, actually, it would be better for Davey to see it in a drawing, rather than for him to string the words clumsily together in some kind of a confession. 

He stowed his sketchbook in his bag, along with his pencil. Sitting back against his seat. he closed his eyes, briefly, trying to move into some kind of a comfortable position, but realised very quickly that, between the racing of his mind and the proximity of Davey, he wasn’t going to manage to fall asleep again. 

*

_‘I’m home!’ Jack called, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up by the door._

_There was no response. That was odd. It was almost half past four, and Davey’s classes finished at two on a Wednesday._

_‘Davey?’ Jack called again. Still no answer. No sign of him in the living room. Jack made his way into the kitchen, and his heart dropped straight into the pit of his stomach._

_Davey was standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at his phone on the table._

_‘Davey? Are you okay?’ Jack said, dropping his bag to the floor._

_‘They’re gonna publish my book.’ Davey whispered._

_‘What?’ Jack said, his voice dropped to a whisper just as Davey’s had._

_‘That was one of the publishers I sent my manuscript to. They’re gonna - ’_

_Before Davey could finish, Jack was yelling with happiness, and hugging Davey as hard as he could._

_‘Davey, I can’t believe it! I mean, I can, but - ’ Jack laughed, exhilarated. Davey, very slowly, wrapped his arms around Jack. He buried his face into his shoulder, and began to shake, very gently._

_‘Hey, Davey, it’s okay.’ Jack said, rubbing his back. ‘I’m so proud of you.’_

_‘Thank you so much.’ Davey said, thickly. He raised his head, leaving two little wet spots on Jack’s shoulder where his tears had fallen. ‘I wouldn’t have done this without you.’_

_Jack smiled at him, and took his face in both hands. Neither of them said anything. It was very, very quiet in the kitchen. Davey’s arms were still looked around Jack’s waist._

_And then, very slowly, very carefully, Jack leaned up on his tiptoes and pressed his mouth to Davey’s. Neither of them moved, just the slant of their lips against each other, warm and soft._

_On the table, Davey’s phone began to ring. Jack pulled back, dropping his hands from either side of Davey’s face, and looked away quickly. Davey looked at him, for a long moment, and then picked up the phone._

_‘Sarah?’ Davey said, walking out from the kitchen. ‘I know! No, don’t tell mom, let me do it.’_

_Jack watched him go, and then leant back on the counter. He could still feel the outline of Davey’s mouth on his, the warmth of his breath with their lips just millimetres from each other. He was shaking, he realised, his entire body unstable, like he had been thrown off balance, and couldn’t quite regain it, no matter what he did._

_He would lie awake in bed that night, replaying the kiss over and over and over. That shaky feeling of regret would never quite disappear - but neither would the warmth, low in his chest, that urged him to kiss Davey again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u know the drill leave a comment and rb the post for this fic on tumblr @weisenbachfelded !


	7. (lover, be good to me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway the title for this comes from the same hozier song (surprise surprise) as the title  
> warnings for internalised homophobia, mentioned alcohol/drug use - all are v mild but stay safe x

_The second time Jack kissed Davey (and Davey knew it wasn’t the other way around, because he wouldn’t dare initiate it), they were at Katherine’s house. Her father away on business, everyone they knew had, naturally, converged on the place, until there must have been over a hundred of them, lining the staircase, glued together at the mouth on the sofas and against the walls._

_Davey snaked his way through the crowd, only narrowly dodging a falling Race, who was being pushed, by Albert, backwards onto the sofa, to continue making out on a much more personal level. He raised his glass of lemonade to Crutchie, in their chair in the corner, who raised their glass back, winked, and gestured at Finch, stood next to them. Davey laughed. Trust Crutchie to choose tonight, of all nights, to finally make a move on their long-time crush._

_He found Katherine and Sarah lying together on one lounger by the pool, Sarah with a joint in one hand, held to Katherine’s mouth as she took a long drag. Davey watched as Kath exhaled, laughed at something Sarah said, then twisted her head round to kiss her. He had been planning to go and hang out with them, but they didn’t seem to want to detach themselves from one another, so he let it slide. He turned around, looking for someone, anyone not otherwise occupied._

_Sitting on the balcony, a floor above, leaning on the railings and looking out over the scene below, was Jack. It wouldn’t be so bad, Davey thought, just to stand here and stare at him. The blue-ish glow of the pool was reflecting off of his face, making him look like some ethereal sea-creature, dappled with blue light. It cast drastic shadows across his face, sharpening his jawline to an even finer point, and making the end of his cigarette look like a bright, burning flame at his mouth._

_Davey‘s cup fell from his hand._

_He heard it clatter to the floor, but couldn’t bring himself even to look down, let alone pick it up. All around him, the party continued. The thudding bass made the earth beneath his feet feel like it was vibrating, the yell of people and splashing of pool water creating a percussive overtone. It was odd, he thought, that the world simply carried on, as if he hadn’t just had the most genius idea for the ending of his book; as if this moment wasn’t going to change his entire life._

_Leaving his cup lying on the ground, he rushed back inside. He thought he heard someone call his name, but he ignored it, making a beeline instead for the room where the coats were lying on the bed. He dug into the pile of jackets, searching for his own. When he found it, he delved into the inside pocket, withdrawing a small, leather-bound notebook and a pen. The curtains fluttered a little in the wind, leading out onto the balcony._

_Pen already scribbling frantically on the paper, Davey walked out onto the balcony. Jack didn’t notice him until he took a seat next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, Davey saw Jack take one last drag of the tiny stub of his cigarette, and put it out against the railings of the balcony._

_‘Oh, it’s one of those ideas?’ Jack said, with a smile, gesturing towards Davey’s notebook, a half-page already full of his scrawls._

_‘Uh-huh.’ Davey mumbled, not looking up._

_He wasn’t quite sure how long they sat there, Davey writing as quickly as his hand would allow, and Jack lighting another cigarette, blowing smoke rings into the deep night sky. Any other time, Davey would applaud, get Jack to do it again, or perhaps watch from a distance as a gaggle of girls complimented him. Now, though, he had space for nothing but his words._

_When he finally came to a stop, he let out a sigh of relief, and capped his pen again._

_‘Done?’ Jack asked._

_‘Done.’ Davey said, smiling at him. Jack was looking at him, in a way that told Davey he had been staring for quite a while. He stubbed out his cigarette, and dusted ash off of his hands._

_‘Wrist cramping?’_

_Davey nodded. Jack held out a hand, and Davey proffered his cramping right wrist. Jack took it, gently rubbing at the sore joint._

_‘Is It any good?’ Jack asked, pointing at the notebook._

_‘I think so.’ Davey said._

_‘Oh, wow. If you’re willing to admit it, it really must be.’ Jack said, with a laugh._

_‘Shut up.’ Davey grinned, then winced as Jack hit a particularly painful spot. ‘Shit, that feels good. You wanna read it?’_

_‘Nah, ‘s too dark.’ Jack said. ‘Read it to me?’_

_‘I - yeah, okay.’ Davey breathed. He turned back a page, and squinted down, barely able to read his own writing, and began to read._

_‘I positioned myself at the end of the dock, toes hanging an inch over the edge. Wondering, but not yet daring. The slats of wood burned imprints into the soles of my feet. In the spaces between, the dappling of the water in the moonlight hinted at the lurking of sea-creatures. Friends, or perhaps hosts. I imagined that they would welcome me. Was I to be a guest, or a permanent resident? I rose to the tips of my toes, and let my balance sway. I wondered if the moon on the water would look quite so pretty from underneath.’_

_Davey let out a deep breath, when he finished, and looked up at Jack. At some point, Jack had stopped rubbing his wrist, and he was now holding it, very gently, his fingers pointing up Davey’s forearm._

_‘That’s it?’ Jack asked._

_‘That’s it.’_

_‘You don’t find out if she - ?’_

_‘Nope.’ Davey said._

_‘Can you at least tell me?’_

_‘Absolutely not.’_

_‘Jesus.’ Jack let out a long breath. ‘You’re gonna conquer the world, Davey. You and your words.’_

_Davey felt himself blush, and wondered if Jack would be able to see it in the darkness._

_‘I don’t know about that.’ He said, with a small laugh._

_Jack looked at him. His face was still reflecting the blue of the swimming pool, on one side. Jack leaned in, and kissed him._

_Davey kissed him back._

_If he hadn’t known he was entirely sober, he might have been fooled into thinking that he had had rather too much to drink. Even just the gentle press of Jack’s mouth on his was enough to send his head swimming, and he knew that, had he been standing, his legs would have long since collapsed beneath him. Jack tasted vaguely of cigarettes, but not of alcohol._

_Regardless, Davey pulled away long enough to ask. ‘Are you drunk?’ He whispered._

_Jack shook his head._

_‘Okay.’ Davey said, his voice still a whisper. And then, Jack’s mouth was on his again, and he was leaning forwards, out of his chair, as if he was trying to reach for Davey, but didn’t have the bravery to do so._

_Davey reached out a hand, closing it in the front of Jack’s shirt, and pulling him onto his lap. The chair was wide enough that Jack could settle with his knees bracketing Davey’s legs. It made Davey smile against Jack’s mouth to realise that Jack was just short enough that they were the same height like this._

_Jack kissed like he was afraid, Davey would think, much later. He kissed like a teenager, clumsy, and fumbling, a little too much tongue, a little too open-mouthed, his hands everywhere at once. In the moment, Davey mistook it for nerves, or for uncertainty, and tried to compensate by planting his hands firmly - one on the back of Jack’s neck, and one on his waist. Safe, comfortable places._

_What Davey did think, in the moment, was that Jack was unsure. Jack had never expressed any kind of interest in - well, in men. Rather the opposite; whenever Davey spoke of his boyfriends, or one-night stands, Jack would seem uninterested, like he was so unequivocally heterosexual that even discussing them would somehow jeopardise his own attraction to women. That had always made Davey laugh, but now, it didn’t seem funny. College guys experimented, Davey knew that. He’d had his fair share of them. What was one more, in the long run?_

_*_

_It wasn’t exactly that Davey meant for kissing Jack to become a regular thing. It just sort of… happened._

_He was just so caught up in writing and rewriting his book, back and forth on crackly video calls with publishers and editors and people whose names and job titles he had forgotten. It wasn’t exactly that he had meant to skirt around actually talking about it. That just sort of happened, too._

_It became very easy to do - a stress-reliever, of sorts, when they were too tired, or too drunk, or something of the sort._

_In a way, they didn’t need to discuss it. There were certain rules that they both abided by with relative ease, and a mutual understanding. No kissing at home. Only when they were out, when they could blame it on the drink or the lateness or the atmosphere. No kissing in front of people. Davey was gay, Jack was straight, end of. They made out sometimes, and that was fine. And nothing more than kissing. The odd grope, if they had both had more than too much to drink, and only ever if Jack initiated it._

_‘I’m not gay.’ Jack said, one night in the bathroom at Spot’s apartment. Davey was fairly sure nobody had noticed them - and, even if they had, they were far too drunk to think anything of it. And why would they? As Jack had so helpfully just confirmed, he wasn’t gay._

_There were familiar frown lines creasing in between Jack’s eyebrows. His hand was still tangled in Davey’s hair, where it curled at the base of his neck._

_‘Okay.’ Davey blinked heavily, and then nodded. He was too drunk for this, too drunk to really take it in. A part of him knew that this was going to hurt an awful lot in the morning, and a part of him - the part that was heady with alcohol - simply didn’t care._

_‘Okay? That’s all you’re gonna say? Okay?’_

_Davey shrugged. ‘What do you want me to say?’_

_‘I don’t know.’ Jack said, frowning even more, and Davey thought, for a moment, that he sounded rather scared. And, because it was Jack, and because this wasn’t anything, and because he was drunk, and they weren’t ever going to talk about it, Davey reached out and brushed his fingers over the crease of Jack’s frown. It did nothing to dissipate it, and Davey dropped his hand back down to where it had been resting on the small of Jack’s back._

_‘Then kiss me again.’ Davey said, with a smile._

_Jack didn’t need to be told twice. He pressed his mouth to Davey’s with a renewed urgency, and let out a small whine. They had done this enough times for Davey to understand what it was that Jack wanted. With a hand on the back of Jack’s head to stop it from thudding against the tiles, Davey pushed Jack up against the bathroom wall, against the thin strip of tiling between the sink and the shower._

_Jack let himself be pressed backwards, eagerly kissing Davey, both his hands looped around his waist, pulling him as close as possible._

_Someone banged on the door of the bathroom, loudly, three times. Davey steppe back, and Jack’s hands dropped to his sides. Davey barely had a moment to take in the sight of Jack, his hair messy, his shirt crumpled, before Jack was turning on the tap, and splashing cold water on his face._

_The person outside banged the door again, more urgently._

_‘Just a second!’ Davey called. Jack didn’t say anything, just stared at the door with a clenched jaw. Davey opened the door, to see Katherine standing there, a dazed smile on her face that told him she was very drunk._

_‘Hey, Kath.’ He said, sighing with relief. He turned to Jack, who looked nothing less than panicked, a deep frown settling in on his forehead._

_‘What are you two doing here?’ Katherine exclaimed, seemingly excited to see both of them at once._

_‘I was vomiting.’ Davey said, quickly. Jack’s frown only intensified. Katherine, however, took the bait._

_‘Oh, my Davey!’ She said, taking his face in both hands. ‘Poor you. Eat some bread!’ She produced half a bread roll from a pocket in the side of her dress. Davey could only laugh._

_‘Thank you, Katherine.’ He said, and took the roll._

_‘Wait for me?’ She said, her eyes wide and pleading._

_‘Okay, okay.’ He said. She smiled, and ran a hand through his undoubtedly messy hair, giggling. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, then darted inside the bathroom and locked the door._

_‘She didn’t notice.’ Davey said, quietly, even though there was nobody else in the hallway._

_Jack gave him an odd look, then shrugged._

_Davey reached out, and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hey, Jackie, she’s too drunk to - ’_

_‘’S fine.’ Jack said, shrugging his hand off. He looked anything but._

_‘Fine.’ Davey said, and leant against the wall, to wait for Katherine to re-emerge._

_Jack looked at him for a long moment, then turned and left._

_Davey drove home by himself that night. His texts to Jack asking if he was okay went unread. The door to Jack’s bedroom was shut, and there was a thin slit of light along the bottom edge. As he lay down to sleep, Davey thought he heard some kind of muffled noise coming from the room next to him. He didn’t get up to check._

_They didn’t kiss again after that. It was probably better that way, Davey thought. A week later, Jack left the bar they were both at with a girl Davey thought he recognised from a history elective he had taken. He was too busy looking determinedly down at his drink to notice that Jack looked at him before he left, or to see the way he hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before he wrapped his arm around the girl’s waist._

_*_

_That night, when Jack came home, Davey’s door was firmly shut. There was a thin slit of light coming from beneath the bottom edge of his door, and a light, continuous clicking noise that told Jack that Davey was typing._

_On any other night, Jack would knock, softly, and edge the door open, just a crack. Sometimes he would take him a snack, a drink, remind him to sleep. Sometimes, he would sit on the bed and draw him. On Jack’s favourite nights, Davey would stop writing, and talk to him, bounce ideas and words and phrases off of him._

_Tonight, though, he waited, for a long time outside Davey’s bedroom. What was he supposed to do? Go in there, and act like everything was normal? Sit on the bed, and confess to Davey that he hadn’t slept with that girl? That, the moment he had kissed her, he had found himself wishing it was Davey’s mouth against his, that Davey would press him against the wall and hold him close? That he had bolted from her apartment like a deer in the headlights?_

_Kissing Davey felt scary. It made Jack feel immature to say so, to put such a childish label on it. But it was true. Kissing Davey felt like spiralling, deep into a black hole, into the depths of a murky abyss that he had no control over. Kissing Davey made Jack feel things he hadn’t ever felt before. Things that he had, in the past, thought he might never feel. Things that he had thought were myths, made up by lovers, to convince themselves their souls were intertwined by some higher power. When he kissed Davey, he became suddenly, terrifyingly aware that they were not myths, after all._

_Eventually, Jack moved away from the door. He didn’t even notice that the clicking of Davey’s laptop keyboard had stopped, nor that it started up again once he had closed his own bedroom door._

_He sat on his bed, and turned on the lamp beside his bed. He picked up a sketchbook and a pencil, and began to draw. A familiar set of eyes, sloping Roman nose and dark eyebrows. Davey, sitting at the table in the bar, looking down into his drink, the world around him a blur. Neon lights on the exposed brick walls of the bar, the flurry of movement that was Spot and Elmer and Finch all laughing together, sitting around Davey, him the centrepiece. He would go on to draw the same scene more times than he could count, in more mediums than he could recall. He would hope, feebly, that Davey would never see it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in a day?? i started writing this and literally couldn’t stop so here we go!  
> as usual much love, i’m on tumblr @weisenbachfelded !!


	8. four hours to landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can FEEL the catharsis coming.... they aren’t communicating but they will. i promise. ily all

_When Davey’s phone rang halfway through dinner, Jack should have known that something was wrong._

_‘Shit.’ Davey said, tugging his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. ‘It’s my editor, I gotta - ’_

_‘Answer it, ‘s fine.’ Jack said. He paused the movie playing on the TV and took another slice of pizza. He watched from the corner of his eye as Davey went into the kitchen to take the call._

_Through the door, he could just see Davey leaning on the countertop, the phone pressed against his ear. He was turned away, and speaking in a low tone. Jack found himself on edge, despite not being able to hear exactly what was happening._

_A minute passed, then five, then ten. There were two slices of pizza left - both with big crusts, and more cheese than tomato, just like Davey liked._

_Davey finally came back into the living room, phone no longer in his hand, biting his lip._

_‘What?’ Jack asked. ‘What’s happened?’_

_Davey took a deep breath in, and hesitated. He didn’t sit down, not yet._

_‘They want me to move closer to where the editor lives. Just until the book’s finished.’_

_‘Oh.’ Jack said. His tongue felt suddenly rather too heavy for his mouth. ‘Where’s the editor live?’ He asked, even though he already knew, even though he had made sure he knew back when Davey got his book deal._

_‘Maine.’ Davey said._

_‘That’s - that’s cool.’ Jack said. ‘Near your parents.’_

_‘Yeah. It’ll get the book finished so much quicker.’_

_‘Yeah.’ Jack said, nodding. It felt a lot like he was on auto-pilot, not quite sure what he actually wanted to say._

_‘You’ll be able to get another apartment or something, have a real space for your art.’ Davey continued, smiling half-heartedly._

_Jack didn’t respond. He had wanted that. He did want that. But he wanted it with Davey._

_‘I saved you the last two slices.’ Jack said, finally, pointing to the pizza box._

_‘Thanks.’ Davey said. He sat down on the sofa, and Jack started the movie playing again._

*

Jack should have remembered, he supposed, that Davey was a very light sleeper. 

That, combined with the fact that he was a nervous flier, meant that it didn’t take long for a bout of turbulence to shake him awake.

And really, Jack should have known to stop staring. What else was there to do, though, on an eight-hour flight when he had already risked sketching Davey?

‘You’re staring at me.’ Davey said, blinking awake. He was gripping the armrest in between them, knuckles turning white. 

‘Nice sleep?’ Jack replied, hoping to steer the conversation away from wherever it was they were headed. 

‘No.’ Davey said, and released his grip on the armrest. ‘I kept waking up.’ He massaged a crick in his neck, and winced a little. The plane continued to rumble and shudder, and Jack heard Davey take a sharp little breath in at every jolt. 

‘Are you okay?’ Jack asked, hesitantly. 

‘Not really.’ Davey shrugged. ‘You know I hate flying.’ 

‘Yeah.’ Jack said. ‘Need a distraction?’

‘I don’t know. Depends what you have in mind.’ 

Jack hadn’t quite gotten that far in his plan. ‘Tell me about the book tour.’ He said, finally.

‘I - really? You want to hear about that?’ Davey asked, sceptical. 

‘Yeah, of course.’ Jack said, and gave what he hoped was a mildly comforting smile. 

‘Okay.’ Davey said, and let out a long breath, that Jack thought might have been a sigh - though whether of release or of exasperation, he wasn’t quite sure. 

Davey let go of the armrest yet again, and moved his hands a few times - on his thighs, back onto the armrest, and finally, folded them in his lap. Jack followed their every move with his gaze, finding that he cared less and less with each passing moment whether Davey suspected anything. 

‘Uh - so - ’ Davey said, seeming unsure. ‘The publishers plan out the tour. There are stops in major bookstores, libraries, sometimes the odd industry gala, or museum. Most of them will just put me behind a table, get people to line up and have me sign stuff, then maybe do a reading. My favourites are when they actually let people ask questions and have discussions and… y’know.’ Davey, by this point, had untwisted his hands and was gesturing a little as he spoke. His voice was hushed, low and a little husky from sleep, careful not to wake the other sleeping passengers around them. 

Jack nodded, smiling. ‘Which bits do you read?’ Davey looked at him a little strangely at that, tilting his head to the side, and smiling a half-smile that send Jack’s heart into a frantic, uneven rhythm. 

‘Usually I just flip to a random page.’ Davey said, almost conspiratorially. ‘That way it’s a surprise each time.’

‘That’s such a <em>you</em> thing to do.’ Jack said, shaking his head. 

Davey laughed, quietly. ‘Yeah, I know.’ 

‘Where’s been your favourite place so far?’ Jack asked. 

Davey pursed his lips, thinking. ‘You know the bookstore on Broadway? Round the corner from - ’ Davey stopped himself, very suddenly. ‘You know the one?’ 

Jack nodded. He knew exactly the one Davey meant. And he knew exactly what Davey had stopped himself from saying. 

  
It had been just under a year ago, the exhibition that had made Jack’s name in the wider art world, and not just in New York circles. And it had been at a big art gallery just around the corner from that bookstore. It had been in that bookstore that, after a tiresome day installing his exhibit, he had bought his copy of <em>Childlore</em>. He could remember with astonishing clarity the way his heart had thudded in his ears, faced with a wall of hard-backed books with Davey’s name in bold letters on the front. He had picked up a book and turned straight to the back cover, to the little photo of Davey on the dust jacket, and the short biography beneath it. 

‘Anyway,’ Davey continued, ‘it felt like a little piece of home. Kath and Sarah came, and it was just - ’ Davey sighed, reminiscently. ‘It was really special.’ 

Jack nodded, smiling. ‘It sounds like it.’ 

‘You had, uh - your exhibition near there, right?’ Davey said. His voice shook a little as he did, and he hoped with everything in him that Jack would mistake it for tiredness, or that the rumbling of the plane engine might conceal it. 

‘Yeah, I did.’ Jack breathed. Davey just nodded in response. 

‘It’s a nice bookstore. You know, both the Delancey brothers came to get their books signed?’ Davey said, and immediately regretted his cowardice at being unable to tell Jack everything. 

‘No way.’ Jack laughed, shakily. Davey could tell just how relieved he was that he had let the subject drop. ‘The same Delanceys who gave you hell in high school?’ 

‘The very same.’ Davey nodded. ‘They didn’t get any more attractive, which made me feel a bit better.’ 

‘I can believe that. Especially since - ’ Jack stopped, and even in the low light, Davey could see his face flushing. 

‘Especially since…?’ Davey prompted. 

‘Well, you know. Since you’re, like, uh - ’ Jack swallowed visibly. He wouldn’t quite make eye contact with him. ‘Successful, and hot and stuff.’ 

Davey laughed, quietly. ‘Thank you. Jack three years ago wouldn’t ever have said that.’ 

‘Yeah, well.’ Jack shrugged, and turned an even deeper shade of pink. ‘Jack three years ago was straight. Or, he thought he was. I mean, I thought.’ 

Davey wasn’t quite sure how to react. Anything, he supposed, would be better than the way that Jack has responded to his own coming out. From Jack’s stammering, his incapability to maintain Davey’s gaze, and his blush, Davey thought that now wasn’t quite the time to make fun of him, though. 

‘Congratulations.’ Davey said. He almost cringed, but it made Jack laugh, a real laugh, his dimples showing and his nose scrunching up. 

‘Thanks.’ Jack said. Davey saw his shoulders drop, releasing just a fraction of their tension. 

*

_‘I’ll move back to New York once the book gets published!’ Davey said. ‘It’s only temporary, so that I can edit it faster.’_

_There were boxes all around them, forming an odd collection of furniture around their apartment. Davey moved out in three days’ time, and this, Jack supposed, was it. This was when they talked about it._

_It’s not that he had meant for them not to talk about it. It had just sort of… happened. He hadn’t meant to get so fucking upset about it, either. That had just sort of happened, too._

_But now, here they were, face to face in the sitting room, Davey’s jaw clenched in frustration, and Jack a split second away from bursting into tears. He was determined not to do that, though, furiously blinking every time he felt the backs of his eyes stinging._

_‘And what if you don’t, Davey?’ Jack said, a little more forcefully than he had intended. ‘What if you find out you like it better there and you meet better people or you fall in love or - ’_

_‘Why the fuck do you care?’_

_‘That’s not the fucking point!_

_‘I can’t do this, Jack.’ Davey said, his voice low and shaky with barely-suppressed rage. ‘I don’t know why you’re pretending like nothing happened - ’_

_‘Don’t you dare try and sidetrack this into something else.’ Jack interrupted. He could feel his heart slamming against his ribs. They were not going to talk about this. Not now._

_‘I’m not sidetracking - ’_

_‘Yes you fucking are! Why do you expect me not to give a shit about you up and moving - ’_

_‘I don’t understand why it’s such a big fucking deal.’ Davey said, with an incredulous laugh. ‘I’ll move back eventually, and we can live together if that’s still what you - ’_

_‘It won’t be.’ Jack snarled. He regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth._

_‘Fine. I - you know what, I don’t even - ’ Davey turned around, quickly, and fumbled on the sideboard for his keys._

_Jack flinched when he slammed the door shut behind him._

*

Coming out to people got gradually easier, Jack had found. But coming out to Davey was, somehow, exponentially more difficult than to anyone else. Which didn’t really make sense, seeing as Davey wasn’t exactly going to be insensitive about it. 

But now it was out there, in the space between them, and Davey could do whatever he liked with the knowledge. That, Jack thought, was what scared him the most. 

‘How long have you been out?’ Davey asked. ‘If, uh - if you don’t mind me asking.’ 

‘Nah, it’s okay. Maybe two years?’ Jack replied. 

Davey let out a breath. In the low light, Jack could just make out his mouth silently forming the words _two years_. He wondered what it was that Davey was thinking. Was he surprised? Annoyed, perhaps, that he had missed out on such a milestone in Jack’s life? Jack barely dared wish, but he found himself hoping that Davey was in some way jealous, regretful that he had missed out by just a year. 

He hoped that, he knew, because that was how he felt himself. It felt like an indulgence to imagine a parallel universe where he might have found acceptance just a year earlier, might have held Davey close rather than push him away. There was a time when he had believed - rather naïvely - that Davey would be in his life forever. There was a time when he had been unable to imagine a future in which he didn’t have Davey by his side. In retrospect, he probably should have realised that wasn’t a particularly platonic thing to think about a person. 

The plane, which had spent a few gracious minutes in steady flight, suddenly jolted again. Jack bumped awkwardly against the armrest, and Davey’s hands flew to hold on to something steady. 

‘Jesus.’ Jack said, and found himself a little breathless. ‘What the hell is going on?’ 

‘I don’t know.’ Davey breathed. He was tense again, breathing rigidly through his nose. Very gently, he nudged the window up, just a fraction. Outside, the sky was pitch dark, but Jack could tell it was stormy, even in the darkness and over the roaring of the plane engine. 

‘Are you okay?’ Jack asked, and reached out a hand, hovering it just inches over Davey’s arm. Davey looked down at his hand like he couldn’t quite believe it was there. 

‘Not really.’ Davey whispered, with an awkward little laugh. 

Before Jack could figure out quite how to respond, his attention was caught by an flight attendant coming down the aisle, stopping at regular intervals. She stopped just short of them, and addressed the seats around them in a loud whisper. 

‘We’ve hit some pretty bad turbulence,’ she said, ‘and we’re going to have to take an alternative flight path. It’s absolutely nothing to worry about, but it will probably add about an hour to our journey.’ Jack just nodded. The flight attendant went on to speak to the people in the rows ahead of them. 

‘Shit.’ Davey mumbled. ‘This really can’t get any fucking worse, can it?’ 

Jack thought he might have been a little offended, if he wasn’t so inclined to agree. Davey had gone even paler, and his eyes kept snapping shut at every bump of turbulence. 

‘Are you sure I can’t do anything?’ Jack asked, quietly. 

‘No, it’s fine.’ Davey said, tersely, his eyes firmly shut. 

The plane shuddered, and jolted, sending at least a dozen people’s trays clattering, and their possessions sliding to the floor. 

‘Oh, my god.’ Davey whispered. 

‘Davey, are you sure I can’t - ’

‘Hold my hand.’ Davey said, his voice barely a whisper. 

‘What?’ Jack blinked down at Davey’s outstretched hand. 

‘Would you just hold my fucking hand already?’ 

‘I - uh - yeah, okay.’ 

Jack took Davey’s hand, threading their fingers together. He wondered, absently, if it were possible for a person to pass out on the spot simply from holding somebody’s hand. 

‘Thank you.’ Davey murmured. His grip was a little too tight, his fingers gripping Jack’s. His thumb was rubbing in comforting circles where it rested against Jack’s hand. 

Jack hesitated for a moment, then put his other hand on top of Davey’s, so that he was holding it in both of his. Davey looked up at him, and Jack thought his heart might stop beating, right there and then. It had been so long, he thought, since he had seen Davey look at him with so little frustration in his eyes. 

He had to remember what they looked like, right now. In the unnatural light of the plane, filled with nerves and something completely unnameable, Jack realised the errors his memory had made in remembering them. That made his last painting of them pretty inaccurate. He wondered if it would be worth re-painting it, just to correct them. Davey was still awfully pretty.


	9. (home with you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • need a chapter title  
> • realise the only ‘home’ related hozier lyric is the title of one of my other fics  
> • panic  
> • name the chapter after it anyway

  
_Davey had a week left in New York before he set off on the last leg of the tour for_ Childlore _. Plastered across the city were billboards and posters, advertising Jack’s big exhibition, each showing just a tantalising fragment of the actual artwork on display._

_He (rather shamefully) stalked his social media, and waited for a day when Jack was posting photos and videos of himself at some park, with Spot and Race and Albert, and it was very certain that he wouldn’t be at the gallery. Then, Davey dressed as nondescriptly as he could, and made his way there, alone._

_The gallery was even bigger than Davey had expected, full of exhibitions of painters’ and sculptors’ work that Davey half-recognised, and some that he had certainly seen in art and history textbooks back in his school days. Jack’s exhibition was impossible to miss, with arrows painted on the walls all around, pointing towards it._

_When he reached the doors, he almost turned around and left again. In big, block letters, across the entrance, was written:_

**KELLY: HOME**

_He bought a ticket on the door, and paid in cash - paranoid, he knew, but he couldn’t bear the thought that Jack might somehow find out that he had come to see it. The guy at the ticket desk looked at him a little strangely, and handed him a leaflet about the exhibition with narrowed eyes, as though he recognised him from somewhere, but couldn’t quite figure out where._

_Davey walked in and waited at the entrance for a moment, opening out the leaflet. The moment he had, he wished that he hadn’t. At the top of the leaflet was a photograph of Jack, in black and white. He was sitting in what seemed to be his studio, in paint-splattered jeans, and an apron over his t-shirt, grinning, a paintbrush between his fingers. Davey quickly folded the leaflet back over the moment he saw it, his heart rate already quickening, and began to read the short description of the exhibition itself:_

Jack Kelly began painting at age thirteen, and hasn’t stopped since. He took art in high school, and went on to obtain a degree in Fine Art from NYU. Kelly spent his teenage years in the foster care system, and he wasn’t adopted until he was fifteen, when he moved to Manhattan, where he lived with his adoptive mother and three adopted siblings. [see below]

_Davey looked down, to see a familiar photo. A copy of it sat on Medda’s coffee table at her house in Manhattan. A copy of it had been tacked up in Jack’s bedroom in their apartment. It showed Jack, Crutchie, Race, and Smalls, sitting in Medda’s back garden, covered in paint, and all grinning from ear to ear. Davey could still remember the way Jack would come into school with a green smear behind his ear, a red splash in the crook of his elbow, never quite able to wash off the remains of his epic paint-balloon fights with his siblings._

Kelly describes ‘ **HOME** ’ as a collection of paintings inspired by the family he found once he moved to Manhattan. In Kelly’s signature hyper-realistic style, all are painted in a startlingly personal first-person perspective. They include several recreations of art from his early teenage years, as well as depictions of places and people he cites as key to creating a place he calls ‘home’.

_Davey read and re-read those two paragraphs, wondering if there was some way he could leave now, without being noticed. When he looked behind him, though, he was reminded by a large sign that there was no exit via the doors he had just come in through._

_He began to walk forwards, through a small hallway, which opened out into a big, white-walled room. There were five paintings on the walls, varying in size. Through a wide archway, Davey could see two more rooms of similar size, and an exit at the very end. Each of the paintings was in bright oil, on huge canvases that Davey could tell, through years of listening to Jack wax poetic about art materials, were very expensive._

_It sent a painful jolt through Davey that he could tell, just at a glance, how much better Jack’s art was than it had been three years previously. It was very undoubtedly his, but at the same time very different, as though Davey had missed several crucial steps in the development of Jack’s style, his use of colour, perhaps in the very way he held a paintbrush. Each painting had its own large expanse of wall, and a small label next to it. A few detailed brief explanations, or context for the painting in question, but others bore just a name._

_The first painting was evidently one of the recreations the leaflet had mentioned. Painted in an oddly hyper-realistic style, it was all in block colours; large, bold strokes, of a green house beneath an orange sky, and blue trees bearing purple fruit dotted across bright yellow and red grass. It reminded Davey of the paintings that Jack and Les used to do together, on sunny afternoons, in the Jacobs’ front room. The label next to it gave a short explanation of the painting, in words so brief that it was almost laughable how obvious it was that Jack had written it himself._

**Escape Route**  
I painted the first version of this at age fourteen. I had just moved in with a new foster family, and already decided I wasn’t there to stay _._

_Davey narrowly resisted the urge to reach out and brush his fingers across the canvas, and feel the ridges and bumps of the painting, the places where Jack had had the most trouble, and the paint was thicker, covering up bits he didn’t like. But he didn’t. He just moved to the side, and a couple behind him moved to take his place, pointing at the description, as if they had any idea what all of this meant. Davey chastised himself for thinking such a thing - as if he had any idea himself what this exhibition meant._

_The next painting was of Medda, in the kitchen. The painting was angled so that the onlooker appeared to be sitting at the kitchen table, and was fairly small, so was looking up at Medda as she cooked, looking back over her shoulder. The painting was called, very simply, ‘_ **Mama** ’ _. There was no descriptive paragraph beneath it._

 _The next painting was of the theatre at school, from the side, during a curtain call. From the colours of the costumes, Davey was fairly certain it was from their production of_ Mamma Mia! _his junior year. Yes, sure enough, there was Katherine, in her dungarees, and Race, in thigh-high platform boots and a ruffled blue unitard. The glare of the lights seemed almost blinding, as, he supposed, it must have been, for Jack in the wings. The painting had a little explanation beneath it._

 **The Theatre**  
I painted backdrops for the drama club at high school. The wings of the theatre became like a home to me.

_The final painting in the first room was of prom night - Davey realised that this room was a collection of Jack’s moments up until the age of eighteen. This painting was darker than the others, the lighting strange, all in different colours. There was a blur of movement all around, and, though there were some faces painted, they were unidentifiable. The painting was named ‘_ **Senior Prom** _’._

_He moved into the next room, nodding and smiling a little as he walked past the security guard on duty. The guard frowned, and then his eyes widened._

_‘You’re the boy in the paintings.’ The guard whispered._

_‘Uh - I think you must have mistaken me for someone else.’ Davey said, with a nervous laugh. The guard frowned again._

_‘Oh. Sorry, sorry. You should take a look at that one, though.’ He said, pointing to a painting in the final room, and settled back in his chair. Even as Davey walked away, he could feel the guard’s gaze boring into his back._

_This room held paintings that were more clearly of certain people, but of more generic moments. A group of people, on the sidewalk, in winter, wrapped in scarves and coats, surrounded by swirling snowflakes. Crutchie, in the elevator at Davey and Jack’s old apartment, the button for the fifth floor with a little ring of light around it. Spot and Smalls, clinking their shot glasses together in some bar somewhere, lines of empty glasses next to each of them. Race, at the wheel of his pickup truck, mouth open mid-song._

_Davey stayed for a very long time opposite a fairly small painting of Katherine, seated at a table in a coffee shop, mid-laugh. The background behind her was a blur of movement and colour, and she had her hands laced around a mug of tea. It felt so familiar to Davey, so comforting. The label next to the painting simply read ‘_ **Kath** _’._

_He hadn’t intended to, but he gazed at a painting of Race and Albert for so long that the people behind him ended up coughing to get his attention, and force him away. There was nothing particularly special about the painting - just Race and Albert, exactly as Davey remembered them. They were lying on the sofa in their apartment, Race on top of Albert, Race pressing a kiss to the corner of Albert’s mouth. Race was wearing an old red sweatshirt - one of Albert’s athletics ones - and Albert was rubbing the fabric of the sleeve between two of their fingers. They looked, as Davey remembered, utterly, irrevocably in love. It left Davey feeling hollow, as though he had been wrung out of all emotion and left limp._

_The painting next to it was a landscape, immediately familiar to Davey. It was of the kitchen in their apartment, the tiling behind the stove, two boiling pots of dinner in front. To the left, the fridge, covered with post-it notes, and novelty magnets pinning up photographs. To the right, though, was a hand, reaching into the frame - most likely to grab the handle of a pan on the stove. Davey didn’t need to move closer to know whose hand it was. The familiarity with which his own hand had been painted was astounding. It left his chest feeling taut and aching, thinking that Jack could paint his hand like that after two years of his absence._

**The Kitchen**  
My college apartment. You would cook dinner and I would paint in the sitting room. It was a home because you were there. 

_It was the only description, Davey realised, written like that. In the second person, directed to someone. Directed to him._

_The painting that left Davey breathless, though, was the one the security guard had pointed at, in the little room at the end. The room held only three paintings, one of a bar, and one of Medda and Jack’s siblings._

_He recognised this painting instantly. It was another scene from prom night, but later on in the evening, when they had all bundled onto the back of Race’s pickup truck, and Race had driven them out to the edge of the city, and they had watched the stars together. Again, it was from what must have been Jack’s perspective, and he could decipher which of his friends was which from little details about their hair, their clothes, the way they were positioned._

_But, completely unavoidably, right in the centre of the painting, was him._

_Immortalised in oil paint, he was almost unrecognisable, and, if the memory were not so clear in his own mind, he would perhaps not have recognised himself. He was half-lying down in the back of the truck, leant back against the cab. His suit was rumpled, his tie loose and his top buttons undone, and he was lazily holding a cigarette to his mouth, smiling around it. From the way his eyes were looking towards Katherine, he must have been laughing at something she had just said. Next to him, Race and Albert’s faces were half-hidden in darkness, the two of them curled up next to each other. Katherine’s hand was reaching out of the frame, no doubt twined in Sarah’s fingers._

_Davey stared at the painting. He moved to the next one, the painting of Medda, Smalls, Race, and Crutchie. His attention was drawn, though, by the third and final painting in the room, the one of the bar._

_The onlooker was stood at the entrance - or, perhaps, the exit - looking inside. The walls were exposed brick, with neon lights making the painting glow in a dozen different colours. There was a table, in the centre, Spot and Elmer and Finch all sitting round it, a flurry of laughter and movement and intoxication. The centrepiece of the painting, again, was Davey. He was looking down into his drink, an unreadable, yet sombre expression on his face.  
  
_

_The caption beneath the painting sent Davey’s heart flying into his throat._

**The Hookup**

_He remembered that night. He remembered that night so clearly it ached to think of it. Jack going home, arm in arm, with some girl from a history elective Davey had taken. Had Jack really looked back at him like that? Moreover, had he really looked that pitiful? If so, then this entire exhibition perhaps meant something entirely different to what Davey had thought, entirely different to what he had imagined._  
  


_This entire exhibition was painted from, as the leaflet had so helpfully explained, a first-person perspective. From Jack’s perspective. Suddenly, things began to make sense. Paintings of people the way Jack saw them. Medda as his mother, a towering figure in the kitchen, authoritative but kind. Their friends on stage, the stage lights blinding, but the sense of applause and of pride glowing from every brushstroke. Spot and Smalls, always competitive, everything made into a contest, even shots. Race and Albert, the very picture of true love, as close to soulmates as two people could ever get._

_And suddenly, Davey’s own image was everywhere. People’s looks of surprise and awe at him made sense - the recognition in the ticket guy’s eyes, the security guard calling him_ the boy in the paintings _._

_He was standing in the background of the painting of the school gym at prom, his face turned towards where the onlooker would be. Where Jack would be._

_He was taking his bow at curtain call on the stage, his head turned towards the wings, just like he always used to, seeking out Jack, wanting to see the pride in his eyes as he clapped and cheered for him._

_He was at the bar, cheering on Spot and Smalls as they took shots, his own drink in hand, but his eyes glancing sideways. Towards where the onlooker would be. Where Jack would be._

_He was walking down the sidewalk, the only one of their friends turning back, just a glance, Jack’s beanie on his head, his eyes glowing and his nose bright pink with the cold._

_Davey didn’t know what to do. It felt like the room was spinning around him, and every fibre of his being was screaming at him to run, to get away from this place, from these three rooms, where Jack was suddenly right next to him, present in every brushstroke, every word on those little white labels, in every inch of canvas._

_He didn’t run. Instead, he pulled his scarf a little tighter around his throat, a little higher on his face, and he walked, back through the three rooms, to the very first painting, and began all over again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh this fic just keeps getting longer. whoops. anyway as it stands it’s 17 chapters but..... we’ll see  
> say hi on tumblr @weisenbachfelded!!


	10. (the kitchen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies. i missed out like 2 paragraphs and am currently adding them in. im a mess im sorry

_The apartment felt very empty._

_In a strange way, Jack hadn’t really noticed it until now. He had been so focused on his anger, on trying to stop himself from crying, that he hadn’t actually taken the time to notice just how empty the apartment was._

_But now, he was standing in their kitchen - his kitchen, he supposed, because they no longer had joint custody of it - and he felt very alone. The kitchen had always been their space, a shared area - somehow, even more so than the rest of the house._

_Davey had always been the better cook out of the two of them, his repertoire of his own mother’s recipes only expanded by spending so much time at Jack’s house as a teenager, learning how to cook Medda’s favourite recipes, the ones she had learned from her mother. He had them collected in a big, ring-bound recipe book, hand-written in his neat but unreadable scrawl. In between the pages were stuck magazine articles, ripped out from the recipe pages, dishes he had tried and that he was yet to try._

_He had commandeered the kitchen without question when they first moved in. Jack could still remember that first night, when Davey had insisted he christen the kitchen, taking pots and pans out of the cardboard boxes, lighting the gas stove with a match, setting out the ingredients on the empty countertop. That night, they had eaten mac and cheese out of mismatched plastic bowls, sitting cross-legged on the bare wooden floor of the sitting room, the only light coming from a single naked bulb, hanging down from the ceiling._

_Now, the floor of the sitting room was bare once again, because the rug was Davey’s, and he had taken it with him to his new apartment in Maine. And Jack was standing in the kitchen, and Davey was gone._

_There were ingredients in the cupboards, and there were pots and pans in the drawer below the sink, and a matchbox by the stove to light the gas. But without Davey there, Jack found himself suddenly stuck, frozen to the spot, unable to make any of the necessary motions to cook himself a meal._

_Any other day, he would use Davey’s migration to the kitchen as a marker for him to begin to tidy away for the day. He would clean off his brushes, fold up his easel, to the sounds of whatever terrible music Davey had chosen to cook to that night. On the best nights, he would stand in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, and watch Davey, dancing with the reckless abandon that he could only have when he was living in an apartment with Jack, swaying his hips and singing quietly in a way that would be comical, if he wasn’t actually a pretty good singer and dancer, and if Jack didn’t find him more than a little attractive. He would often find himself aching to press up behind him, to wrap his arms around his waist, to sway to the music with him, to kiss down the line of his neck. He was just the right height - he knew, now, ever since their fleeting kisses - to rest his head comfortably on Davey’s shoulder._

_He wouldn’t ever do that, though. Instead, he would laugh, and sing along with Davey, and dip his finger into whatever it was he was cooking. He would let Davey swat him away, and then he would sit at the kitchen table, or lean on the counter, and watch him cook, ask about his day._

_Jack blinked hard, trying to get rid of the incessant pricking behind his eyes. He picked a takeaway menu off of the fridge. Chinese, like they had whenever Davey had a bad day of writing. He skimmed through the menu, as if he didn’t know the order off by heart. A number two, number four to share. Number fifteen for him, and a vegetarian number twenty-four for Davey. He scrunched the menu up and threw it in the bin in the kitchen._

_Jack slumped down on the couch. Out of force of habit, he leaned against the armrest on the left-hand side, leaving the right-hand side clear. There was still an imprint on the right-hand side couch cushion, where Davey would sit, and lean back, where he would stretch out his legs, and sigh, wistfully, relievedly, after closing up his laptop._

_The TV remote was on the coffee table, angled towards the right-hand side of the couch. Jack picked it up and clicked the TV on. The noise that Netflix made when it opened echoed around the room a little more than he was used to. Davey’s profile was selected, telling Jack that he was fourteen minutes through season five, episode seven of Gilmore Girls._

_He shut the TV off quickly. How many more of these things were there? How many more joint Netflix accounts to cancel, how many more new rugs to buy, how many more recipes would he have to learn to cook himself?_

_A miserable hunger was gnawing at Jack’s stomach, but, combined with the aching nausea of losing Davey, he couldn’t bring himself to find food._

_That was the first time, he realised, that he had named it for what it was: a loss. He had pushed and pushed, and finally, Davey had given way, and left. There was no spark of hope, even, that one of them might give in, might call, might be the first to lay out an apology, might hope that the other would accept and return it._

_Before he went to bed, that first night without Davey, he hesitated for a moment outside Davey’s room. Inside, there was nothing but four bare walls. Davey had even taken the bed frame with him._

_No, that wasn’t quite true. Tacked up on wall, above where Davey’s bed used to be, were two photographs, and a drawing. Around them was a little cloud of marks, from where other photos, and souvenirs had been tacked up - the ones that Davey had taken with him._

_Both the photographs were of the two of them, back in high school. The first, of them lying in the grass together. Davey had his athletics letterman jacket on - and, god, Jack could remember with astonishing clarity just how much he had longed to slip that jacket on, to smell Davey’s scent on the collar, to have Davey’s name printed across the back of his shoulder blades. The second photo was at their graduation, Jack’s arm around Davey’s shoulders, in those blissful six months where Jack had been a few inches taller than Davey, before Davey had his final growth spurt and rocketed skywards._

_The drawing, Jack recognised as his own. He had never even realised that it was here until now. It was one of the only drawings he had ever done of himself - barely recognisable as being so. It was of the living room, just a brief pencil sketch. Davey was sat on the right-hand side, laughing at some long-forgotten joke. His legs were tucked up beneath him, and he was curled up in his place like a cat. Jack was next to him, his head turned to look at Davey._

_He collapsed down onto the floor, cross-legged, staring up at them. The whole apartment felt awfully hollow, like a space had been carved out with a knife, taking Davey with it, but not erasing the trace of him, the lingering evidence that Davey had been there._

_Jack’s chest felt hollow, too. He wanted, with a deep, aching desperation, to have Davey at his side, an arm around his shoulders. He wanted Davey to kiss him again, with that gentle reassurance. He loved it when Davey kissed him like that. Sure, he loved it when he backed him up against a wall, when he kissed him desperately and eagerly. But there was nothing quite like having Davey hold him, solid and real, his hands firmly in one place, waiting with an eternal patience for Jack to make the next move, for Jack to decide what he wanted to happen._

_It was not a sudden realisation, nor a shocking one, when he used the word_ love _concerning Davey, just in his own mind. Rather, a sinking feeling settled in, a low, exhausted frustration. Their entire lives together, the seven years they had spent side by side, felt suddenly very fleeting, as though they had passed each other by, like ships in the night._

_Jack considered, for the very briefest of moments, calling Davey. Begging him to come home, confessing - what exactly? What words would he use? What words could he possibly find that would truly encompass what he felt, that would make Davey stay?_

_He wondered where Davey was now. In his car, directions to his new apartment open on his phone, the moving van trundling along the highway in front of him? Maybe he was already in Maine. Who would he visit first? The editor? His publisher? His parents, probably, he supposed. Or, maybe, he was sitting in his new apartment. Eating a vegetarian number twenty-four, with cardboard takeout boxes scattered across the floor. His bed frame in a new room, with photos of him and his friends tacked up on the walls. There would be none of Jack, he was certain of that much._

_Jack’s phone was just across the apartment, sitting on the coffee table. It would be so easy just to pick it up, not even have to dial Davey’s number, because it was first in the list of numbers he had called recently._

_But he remembered the look on Davey’s face when they had fought. The anger, the frustration, the way he was so obviously tired of Jack, tired of playing whatever game Jack had dragged him along on._

_*_

_‘Wait!’ Jack said._

_He was stood in the middle of the exhibition rooms, watching the final light bulbs being screwed into fixtures hanging from the ceilings. Everyone in the room turned to look at him._

_‘Is there still time to print one more label?’ He asked, suddenly rather embarrassed. A few of the guys who worked at the gallery exchanged a look, then shrugged._

_‘Yeah, sure.’ One of them said. ‘Come with me, we’ll get it printed.’_

_Jack stuck it up, beneath the painting he had named_ **The Kitchen** _. He wasn’t sure quite what it meant - did he really want him to see it? Was that even possible? All he knew was that it made the exhibition feel complete, finally._

_At the official opening, Katherine, with Sarah on her arm, pointed at it and asked what it meant. He tapped his nose, knowingly, and smiled._

_‘An artist never tells.’ He said, ignoring the way his stomach felt like it was turning itself inside out, and outside in again._

_Katherine laughed, just a little, and moved on to the next painting. Sarah pressed a kiss to the top of her head as she did._

_Jack spent the evening with a half-full glass of wine in his hand, taking minute sips. He hadn’t really realised, until now, just how much his friends had grown up. In the time he had spent living alone, drawing painting and speaking to gallery curators and art collectors, they had begun to build their lives. The paintings around him, he realised, were a shocking reminder that he had not yet moved on from the past._

_He hung back in a corner, speaking briefly to people as they passed. Mostly, though, he just watched._

_Albert and Race, hand in hand, rushed through the gallery, pointing at themselves wherever they saw them, laughing, pressing kisses to each other’s mouths, hands, foreheads, whispering promises and affirmations._

_Spot and Elmer, with Spot’s hand possessively tucked in the back pocket of Elmer’s jeans, looked like they had aged since he had last seen them. Had it really been so long? They were thinking of having kids, they told him. Jesus. That made him feel immature beyond belief._

_‘You’ll be amazing parents, you know that.’ He told them, with a smile that faded as soon as they turned away._

_Crutchie and Finch, side by side, Finch holding both their glasses of wine, and handing Crutchie theirs whenever they stopped. Their motions were in such perfect synchronicity, both of them finely attuned to the ebb and flow of the other’s motion._

_There were people here who still saw Davey, he knew. Sarah, of course. Finch, and Albert, and Spot and Elmer. Jack never asked about him, and they never told him about him. It was better that way._

_‘He’s in them an awful lot.’ Crutchie said, late in the evening, sipping from another glass of wine. Jack didn’t need to ask who they were referring to. He hates that his younger sibling knew him like that, even without him having to say a word._

_‘We were best friends.’ Jack shrugged. He had recited those words more times than he could count - to friends, to gallery workers asking who the boy in all of those paintings was. If he said it enough times, maybe he would believe it. Maybe it would become the truth, that he painted them all because he wanted to remember their friendship._

_He hateD that Crutchie understood not to press him. He hated that he wanted them to ask more questions, until he dissolved into a puddle on the floor, confessing everything. He had been out for a year now, and Crutchie has been the first person he had told. They had hugged him, and told him how proud they were. That made four out of four queer siblings, they had said, with a smile. Jackpot. They had laughed at that. Jack still used that joke when he came out to people, if he wasn’t sure how they would take it._

_*_

_Davey collapsed onto a bench the moment he got out of the gallery. His knees simply gave way, almost sending him sprawling. In a near-involuntary motion, he took out his phone. He scrolled back through his contacts, long having deleted their text conversations. There it was, in little black letters, entirely unchanged, a photo of Jack pulling a weird face, next to his name._

_He clicked on the phone number, and pressed the phone to his ear._

_It didn’t even ring. A voice, clear and cool, told him in no uncertain terms that the number he was trying to reach no longer existed._

_He listened to the message in its entirety, and then did so again, and again, each time becoming more and more certain of what it meant._

_Jack did not love him back, nor had he ever. He had made that much as clear when they had left, and Davey was ridiculous to have thought otherwise. Wishful thinking. Really, it couldn’t have gotten any more cliché - gay teenager falls in love with his straight best friend. It was like he was the side-character in a shitty rom-com, where the gay best friend disappears into the periphery of the film as the main character meets the girl of his dreams at a major gallery open. The boy in the paintings becomes nothing more than that - a painting. The main guy kisses the girl in front of a painting where the boy is just a blurred figure in the background. Roll credits._

_He would repeat that to himself, dozens of times, over the following year. He would never mention to anyone, not even to his sister, not even to Racetrack when he ran into him in Central Park, that he had seen the exhibition._

_He put his phone back in his pocket. He leant back in the bench, and watched people pass by, cars blurring into a flowing, continuous stream of colour._

_He remembered, with a painful clarity, a time when he had loved Jack until he ached. At sixteen, the butterflies when Jack smiled. At seventeen, the hopeful flicker when he slung an arm around his shoulders. At eighteen, the hollow hurt as Jack danced with a girl from his Biology class at prom. At twenty, kissing some other guy in a bar, unable to dismiss the clawing reminder that Jack was just across the room. At twenty-one, wondering, for a fleeting moment, if it could possibly happen, trying desperately to cling onto Jack without scaring him away, and doing it all the same._

_Now, it felt less like an ache, much more dull, subdued. He could sometimes quell it long enough to hold onto a relationship for a few months at a time, but never for longer than that._

_Much later on, he would wonder why he hadn’t asked Race for Jack’s new number, that day he had seen him in Central_  
_Park. Then, he would think on it for a few moments more, remember how stupid he had felt at so many regular intervals in the last decade, and realise that Jack had simply outgrown him._

_He hoped, without a trace of malice, that Jack had been paid well for the exhibition._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry it’s not any happier! the next few will be hopefully.  
> some unrelated things i thought this chapter:  
> • davey loves gilmore girls  
> • he’s team jess but jack is team logan and davey literally cannot understand why  
> • they rewatch their fave eps after bad days. they fight over whether it’s jess episodes or logan ones


	11. still four hours to landing

Jack’s hand felt so achingly familiar in his own. Davey thought, absently, that he could recognise it out of thousands, instantly identify it. If by nothing else, he would recognise it by the way it made his heart rate accelerate, by the way it made him feel a little warm, by the desperation he felt to lift it to his mouth and kiss Jack’s knuckles, his fingertips, the back of his hand. God, it had been years since he had felt that in such intensity. He had often thought it was a feeling he would never feel again, half-forgotten in the years spent apart. 

The flight being made longer by the weather was an odd experience, Davey thought. This weird elongation of the time he had to spend seated next to Jack somehow threw him off-kilter, like he wasn’t quite sure what do do any more, just like he had been at the very beginning, when he had first seen Jack. 

It was only an hour. And yet, this paradoxical extension of time seemed to twist and turn, doubling back on itself, sending everything within its vicinity spiralling uncontrollably. 

‘Oh.’ Davey said, softly, barely a whisper. Jack turned to look at him, head snapping round in what seemed to be an involuntary response. Davey let go of Jack’s hand, and immediately started patting his pockets, searching for a pen and paper. He found his little notepad easily, but his pen must have slipped out at some point. 

‘Here.’ Jack said. He was holding out one of his sketching pencils, probably too soft for writing, but it would have to do. 

‘Thanks.’ Davey said, his mind still racing. He took the pencil and immediately began to write - just a few disjointed words and phrases, and then, in the centre, he wrote and underlined the words ‘paradoxical extension of time’. He sighed, and sat back in his chair. 

‘Got something good?’ Jack asked. 

‘What?’ 

Jack pointed at his notebook. ‘I figured you thought of something good to write. That’s what that little gasp usually means, anyway.’ 

Davey blinked at Jack. He was blushing, just a little. 

‘What little gasp?’ Davey frowned. 

‘Oh!’ Jack said, mimicking Davey’s exclamation from moments before. 

‘Shut up.’ Davey said, with a smile. ‘I do not sound like that.’ 

‘Um, you definitely do.’ Jack replied. 

‘I don’t.’ Davey said, firmly. He handed Jack his pencil back. He thought, perhaps, that Jack reached out just a little too far, their fingers brushing together. 

‘I’ve heard you do it a million times.’ Jack said. 

Davey didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He needed a moment, some time alone, to think, to sift through the last ten years through this new lens that he had now, to try and make sense of the man sitting next to him. When he had first sat down next to him, he had felt a world away, felt like a near-stranger - or, at the very least, like someone he no longer knew. Now, though, he felt so familiar, so close. Now, Davey wondered just how much had really changed during these last three years apart. 

‘Earth to Davey?’ Jack said. When Davey blinked himself back into the present, Jack was tilting his head to one side, a familiar little worried crease of a frown in between his eyebrows. He was forcefully reminded that he most definitely didn’t have a moment, didn’t have the time alone he so badly wanted. 

‘Sorry, sorry.’ Davey said. ‘Just zoned out.’ 

‘Okay.’ Jack nodded. Beneath them, the plane gave an uncomfortable bump. Davey’s hand flew to Jack’s again, but this time, he caught himself, and quickly withdrew it, mumbling an apology. 

‘I don’t mind, Davey.’ Jack said, quietly. His mouth formed Davey’s name with such ease, such familiarity. Davey found himself wondering how many times he had said it in the time they had been apart. 

Jack held out his hand, palm facing upwards, resting on the armrest between them. Davey looked down, and bit his lip. 

‘What?’ Jack asked. Davey looked up at him. 

‘What?’ Davey asked. Jack laughed, just to himself. 

‘What is it?’ Jack said. All around them, it was very quiet. Davey had hardly noticed, but the turbulence had stilled, and everyone on the plane was now silent, either sleeping or with their attention attuned solely to their own matters. 

In the darkness of the plane, everything felt suddenly very serious. Gone were the jokes, the tentative laughter and teasing of earlier on, to be replaced with a sense that everything had slowed. It was rather like they were in the very eye of a storm - one wrong move, and they would be swept up, up, and away, into something far greater than themselves. 

‘You look like something’s wrong.’ Jack said, quietly. In the silence, his voice felt all at once very close, and very far away. 

Davey didn’t say anything. Now, he supposed, was it. Now was when he said it. This was the extension of the tree branch, the rope ladder for him to climb. 

Davey didn’t look up from Jack’s open palm. ‘I missed you.’ He said, finally. 

Jack’s fingers retracted, quickly, as if he had started in shock. They relaxed back to a resting position. Slowly, and rather uncertainly, Davey placed his hand in Jack’s. He heard Jack exhale, all in a rush. 

‘I missed you, too.’ Jack whispered. Davey looked up at him. He smiled, and Davey smiled back, just a little. 

Davey sat back in his seat, their hands still joined together, resting atop the armrest. 

‘I came to see your big exhibition.’ Davey said, and immediately wished he hadn’t. 

Jack didn’t reply for a long time. He just looked at Davey, that frown still on his forehead. Davey wanted with everything in him to reach over and smooth it away, to find the words that would get rid of it. 

‘Yeah, I know.’ Jack said. He leant back in his chair, too, and looked determinedly straight forwards, away from Davey. 

‘What? How?’ Davey asked, trying desperately not to sound as panicked as he felt. 

‘How _couldn’t_ I know?’ Jack laughed, humourlessly. ‘For weeks afterwards, all the gallery staff were telling me _he_ came to see it, _the boy in the paintings_ finally came to see it.’ 

It was as if the words came spilling out of him, almost uncontrollable. Was this really all it took? Davey’s hand in his, and suddenly he was rendered incapable of holding back anything at all? 

‘It’s funny that the media hasn’t figured it out yet.’ Davey said. It wasn’t quite a response, almost as if he was trying to buy himself time. 

‘What?’ Jack said. ‘That the guy in the famous ‘HOME’ exhibition is actually famous himself?’ 

Davey laughed, a short, fast, out-breath. ‘Yeah. I guess people don’t really know what I look like.’

‘Really?’

‘Mm.’ Davey hummed. He was looking down at their joined hands, as if he was trying to bore a hole in them with just his eyesight. ‘Think of literally any author that isn’t, like, John Green or something. You don’t actually know what they look like.’ 

Jack thought. He found that Davey was right. He had some images of writers with dark hair, or with glasses, but none he would recognise if he walked by them in the street. 

‘People never look in the back of the book.’ Davey continued. ‘They don’t actually remember what the writer looks like.’ 

‘I always did.’ There it was again. That incapability to keep his mouth shut, as if he was somehow only now enacting some subconscious desire to spill the contents of his heart to Davey. Although, perhaps he had already done that in painting that exhibition. 

‘Always did what?’ Davey asked, ever clueless. 

‘Looked in the back. At your photo.’ 

‘Oh.’ Davey breathed. 

‘It was the only way I could keep track of - of you. That, and interviews, and stuff.’ 

‘The photo of you in the exhibition leaflet.’ Davey said. It wasn’t quite a complete sentence, but somehow, Jack understood what he meant. 

‘It’s a really bad photo.’ Jack said, partially to try and lighten the mood. 

‘It’s not.’ Davey said, and he looked up, very suddenly at Jack. 

Jack felt his heart fall several storeys into the pit of his stomach. Davey’s eyes were so, so blue, and so stormy grey around the edges. He wanted to fall headfirst straight into them, for them to swallow him whole, to consume him. 

Davey didn’t look like he was breathing. It was as if he was waiting for something, stuck between wanting to be the one to speak and willing Jack to breach the gap first. 

‘I’m sorry.’ They both said, at almost the exact same moment. 

That made Davey laugh, quick and shaky, and he looked downwards. He looked almost surprised to see their hands still joined together in the space between them.

‘I wish - ’ Davey started, just as Jack spoke. 

‘I need to - sorry.’ Jack stumbled over his words, shaken and unsure whether or not to let Davey start. 

‘No, no, what were you - ’ Davey began. 

‘It - I - ’ Jack sighed, frustrated. Davey, to his credit, seemed to understand Jack’s incapability to string words together. 

‘I wish we could go back to how we were.’ Davey said. And, oh, Jack hadn’t been expecting that. What did that mean? They had been many things over the past decade, and Davey could have been referring to any number of them. 

‘We can’t.’ Jack said, without thinking. ‘I have too much to apologise for.’ 

‘What?’ Davey said, puzzled, shaking his head. ‘I’m the one that needs to - ’ he broke off, and cleared his throat. Very, very tentatively, almost as if he was waiting for Jack to push him away, Davey placed his other hand on top of their joined hands. 

‘I wonder if,’ Davey said, slowly, considering his every word, ‘we remember things differently.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ Jack asked, even though he was almost certain he already knew. 

‘Maybe we were both wrong.’ Davey said. 

‘You weren’t.’ Jack said, immediately. 

Davey gave a short, dry laugh. ‘I was.’ He said. 

‘Tell me.’ Jack said. The words that he had so struggled to put together were, all of a sudden, flowing freely. ‘Tell me what you think. And I’ll tell you why it’s wrong.’ 

‘Where do I start?’ Davey said, with another laugh. Jack just carried on staring at him, severely. Davey, a little more soberly, tilted his head, asking without needing to repeat the question. 

‘At the beginning.’ Jack said. ‘Wherever that is, for you.’ 

‘When we were seventeen?’ Davey asked. As soon as he said it, he looked very afraid, and oddly childlike, as if he had been caught red-handed. 

Jack’s heart skipped a beat. His throat felt suddenly very dry. Maybe, just maybe, he was even more wrong than he had first thought. And, fuck, if that wasn’t utterly terrifying. 

‘Yeah.’ Jack breathed. ‘Start there.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! im. so tired atm so im sorry im not replying to comments! i read and love every single one of them though. u all mean the world to me and i adore u all


	12. three hours to landing

‘It it wasn’t obvious enough back then, I’ve had a crush on you since I was seventeen. I always felt guilty about it, I think.’ Davey said. Jack’s hand was still resting in both of his. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Jack whispered. They were both looking up, both looking at each other, for longer than either of them had in a very long time. 

‘Don’t be.’ Davey shrugged. ‘You would’ve freaked out if I told you that when we were seventeen.’ 

Jack didn’t respond, but his mouth turned up, just a little, at the corner, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly. 

‘I - when we - when we started, y’know.’ Davey frowned a little, not wanting to say the words, not all of them. 

‘I know.’ Jack said, understanding, somehow. 

‘I knew you didn’t feel the same. It - I knew if I said anything then you’d know I was in too deep.’ 

‘Stop.’ Jack interrupted. 

‘What?’ Davey frowned again. 

‘I said I’d tell you when you got something wrong. And you did.’ 

‘Jack, I think I remember that much - ’

‘I felt the same.’ Jack said. He made as if to move his hand away, then thought better of it. Very gently, he placed his other hand on top of Davey’s, so that both of their pairs hands were piled on top of each other. It felt, Davey thought, as if Jack was trying somehow to get closer to him, without actually breaching the physical barrier of the armrest in between them. 

Davey began to respond, but found he couldn’t even take in enough air to form the beginnings of a word. He had sort of known, he thought, for a very long time, but hearing Jack say it out loud was somehow completely different. It felt rather as if his brain was folding in on itself, crumpling like a sheet of paper. 

‘Well, maybe not exactly the same.’ Jack said, when Davey didn’t reply. His eyes widened suddenly, like he hadn’t quite thought through what he had said. ‘Shit - I mean - ‘ he closed his eyes and let out a long breath. ‘I liked you for a very long time. I just… I didn’t let myself believe that I did.’ 

‘Oh, Jack.’ Davey whispered. He wanted so badly to reach out, to brush invisible strands of hair from his face, to touch their foreheads together, perhaps, to hold his face in his own hands. 

‘When you left, I wanted to tell you. I was so angry at myself for not being able to.’ 

Davey shook his head vigorously. ‘That was my fault. I should have stayed, I should have called, or something.’ 

Jack smiled at that, and shook his head a little. There was a light in his eyes that Davey didn’t recognise. Had it ever been there before? Had he simply never noticed it? 

‘It wasn’t your fault, Davey.’ His voice was low, and quiet, and it sent a jolt through Davey, making his chest ache. ‘I was just so scared.’ 

‘I know.’ Davey said, without really thinking. 

Jack looked at him, a little confused. 

‘I could always tell how scared you were.’ Davey said. ‘I’m sorry I never said anything.’ 

‘’S’okay. I think if you had, it would’ve scared me off for good.’ 

‘I still should have. I think I was too scared of losing - of it stopping. Didn’t exactly help in the end, though.’ 

Jack laughed, breathlessly. ‘You’re right about that. God, I was stupid.’ 

‘Don’t say that.’ 

‘I was, Davey.’ Jack shrugged. ‘I let you go. I missed my chance.’ 

‘You didn’t.’ Davey said. It was as if the words hung, suspended in mid-air. Davey would only have been mildly surprised if the plane’s engine had entirely shut off, and their altitude was being maintained solely by the magnitude of what he had just said. 

‘Davey.’ Jack breathed. ‘Davey, don’t say that. Don’t - don’t get my hopes up.’ 

Davey might have laughed, had Jack not looked so completely and utterly distraught. 

‘I mean it.’ Davey said. ‘Come with me, when we land. Just let us try, just once.’ He almost surprised himself, at just how certain he sounded. He hadn’t even truly registered just how much he wanted this until the words were spilling from his mouth, pouring from him the same way they did when he was writing. 

‘There’s a thousand reasons we can’t.’ Jack said. 

‘Tell me.’ Davey replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Tell me, and I’ll tell you why they’re wrong.’

Jack drew back at that, pulling his hands away from Davey’s. It took everything Davey had not to chase after them, to grab on to them and hold fast. 

‘I have my art. You have your book tour.’

‘Fuck the book tour.’ 

Jack laughed at that, and the sound came out more bitter, harsher than he had intended - and for the inevitable warmth that spread within him, at that familiar fiery passion igniting within Davey. It was the same passion, he knew, that could drive Davey to write thousands of words in a night, that could demolish a person’s argument in mere sentences, that could push him up against a wall and kiss him until he was dizzy and deeply intoxicated. 

‘You don’t mean that.’ Jack said, softly. 

‘Don’t tell me what I mean.’ Davey replied, and there were sharp shards of ice in his voice. 

Jack chose to ignore that, and to ignore the way it made his heart pound. 

‘We can’t just dive in where we finished off. I’m - we’re different.’ 

‘Are we?’ Davey asked. Jack opened his mouth to respond, but Davey didn’t let him. ‘When I first saw you - today, I mean - I thought you’d feel different. Feel like a stranger. But you don’t. You just feel like Jack.’ 

‘I’ll fuck something up again.’ Jack pressed on. ‘I fucked everything up last time, and I don’t trust myself not to do it again. And I - ’ he hesitated, his voice moments away from breaking ‘- I can’t take it. Not again.’ 

Davey didn’t reply to that. His words, it seemed, had run out. 

‘I called you. After I saw the exhibition.’ He said, finally. 

‘What?’ Jack asked. 

‘I didn’t want to hope that it meant what I thought, so I called you.’ 

‘I changed my number. Two years back, when my art started to kick off.’ 

‘Yeah, I figured. I just - ’ Davey looked away, his eyes darting everywhere but towards Jack. 

‘What?’ Jack pressed. 

‘It sounds stupid.’ 

‘After the things I’ve done?’ 

Davey paused for a long moment, and then took a deep breath in. ‘I took it to mean you definitely didn’t want to talk to me. I figured I was just inventing things.’

‘Jesus.’ Jack breathed. ‘You really couldn’t see it?’

‘Maybe.’ Davey shrugged. ‘I just couldn’t bring myself to hope.’ 

‘Everyone else could. Everyone who knew you. I had to make people promise not to tell you.’ 

‘Nobody did, if you were wondering.’ Davey said, with a small smile. Jack felt his heart do a familiar flip-flop, like it was turning over on itself in his chest. 

Davey looked at him. Jack looked back. 

Davey held out his hand, palm turned upwards. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. When had he done that? While Jack was sleeping, perhaps. He had broadened, in the shoulders, and his arms looked like they were more muscular than he remembered them being. He wanted, so badly that it hurt. 

Perhaps it was fear that led him to take Davey’s hand. He would think, much later, that it had been the fear of what he might miss, that led him to thread his fingers through Davey’s, on top of the armrest. 

The moment he did, Davey smiled - a real, big smile, that lit up his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. 

‘What do we do now?’ Jack whispered. 

‘I don’t know.’ Davey replied, not looking away. 

Jack let his gaze drop, as Davey ran his thumb over the back of Jack’s fingers, very softly, and very gently. He looked up, and his gaze fell, very naturally, to Davey’s mouth. In particular, to the little bend of his Cupid’s bow, a shape that Jack had traced with a paintbrush on canvas more times than he could count. When he looked back up to Davey’s eyes, Davey was still staring, and still smiling. Jack took a deep breath in. 

‘I’d really like to kiss you.’ He said, quietly. 

Davey only just stopped himself from gasping. He wondered if Jack had noticed his sharp little intake of breath, if he had been aware of just how much his words had affected him. Davey let his eyes flicker closed, for the briefest of moments. And then, he shook his head. 

‘I can’t, Jackie.’ He said, very quietly. Jack thought he might melt, just at the very sound of that nickname. Nobody used it, not any more - no one but Davey had ever really used it in the first place - and now, to hear Davey form the shape of those syllables was almost enough to distract Jack entirely from what he had actually said. 

Jack blinked, heavily. ‘What? What do you mean, you can’t?’ 

‘I just - ’

‘Why can’t you?’ Jack frowned. 

‘Because if I kiss you now, I’m not going to be able to stop.’ Davey said, very matter of fact. 

Jack’s mouth froze in an o-shape, caught on an in-breath. Davey would have laughed, if he hadn’t been so entirely serious. 

‘We are on a plane surrounded by hundreds of other people.’ Davey continued, his tone still incredibly even. ‘All of whom would definitely object were I to do everything I would like to right now.’ 

Jack slumped back in his seat, and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. 

‘You’re gonna kill me, Davey.’ He whispered. Davey laughed, very quietly, and brought their joined hands up to his mouth. Jack watched, very intently, as he brushed his mouth to Jack’s knuckles. Even the slightest of touches was enough to make Jack cover his mouth with his hand to stifle a moan, which made Davey smile again. 

It had been an awfully long time since he’d had anything resembling a serious relationship. It was very hard to commit yourself, when you were busy working on a series of paintings about a boy you’d been in love with for years on end. As a result, he had ended up with a string of one-night stands, a few blind dates, but never anything real. Every touch he had felt over the last three years had been merely a fleeting replica of what he so sorely craved. If this was what a brush of Davey’s lips against his knuckles did, he wasn’t sure he was going to survive the next - 

The next few hours? Days? Weeks? He wasn’t quite sure how to label whatever this was going to be. As terrified as he was to go down that path again, a part of him was still suspended in fear to ask, too afraid that he wouldn’t receive an answer that wouldn’t shatter him into pieces. 

‘I can hear you thinking.’ Davey said, leaning over and brushing his fingertips over the space in between Jack’s eyebrows, over the frown creasing his forehead. 

To Davey’s immense satisfaction, Jack’s frown softened, and he took hold of Davey’s hand, and brought it to his mouth. He kissed Davey’s fingertips, then his knuckles, and then the back of his hand. Davey could feel his heart thundering in his chest, as if it were clamouring to escape. 

Jack opened his mouth to reply, but instead just yawned, letting go of Davey’s hand so that he could cover his mouth. 

Davey laughed, very quietly. ‘Sleep.’ He said. 

‘’M not tired.’ Jack mumbled. ‘I want to stay awake. With you.’ 

Davey could hardly deny him, smiling fondly. ‘Sleep.’ He repeated. ‘I’ll be here when you wake up.’ 

Jack frowned again. Davey raised his eyebrows. Jack rolled his eyes, but then let go of Davey’s other hand, pushed the armrest between them up and out of the way, unfastened his seatbelt, and took Davey’s hand again. Tentatively, as if he were asking Davey’s permission, he lowered his head onto his shoulder. 

Davey was rather glad that Jack’s eyes were already fluttering shut, so that he couldn’t see the smile spreading uncontrollably across his face. 

He wondered, absently, how much of their conversation the passengers around them. He found that he didn’t particularly care. They should be grateful for such eventful in-flight entertainment.


	13. two hours to landing

Jack awoke not, as before, in shock, jolted by turbulence, but far more slowly, and gently, blinking blearily. The lights on the plane were still low, making it difficult for him to figure out just how long he had been sleeping. 

It took him a moment to adjust to the low light - and another to realise exactly where he was and to recall what had immediately preceded his falling asleep. His head was still resting on Davey’s shoulder. Directly in his line of view was Davey’s right hand, resting on his thigh, his thumb rubbing in comforting circles. In his other hand, Davey was holding a book open, to about halfway through. He shifted a little, prompting Davey to turn and look at him, closing his book, a finger marking his page. 

‘Hi.’ Davey said, quietly. He was smiling, just a little. Jack wanted to press his mouth to the corners of his mouth, where they were tugging upwards, hinting at a smile. 

‘Hi.’ Jack said, his voice still hoarse from sleep. He lifted his head off Davey’s shoulder and stretched out his arms - at least, as much as he could in the limited space. Davey looked downwards, folding over the corner of the page of his book. Jack watched him as he did, and became suddenly very, very aware that he was wearing his glasses again. Davey leaned down and tucked his book into his bag. As he did, Jack watched the way his shirt stretched taut across his back, and his upper arms. 

‘What?’ Davey said, sitting up again, and frowning at him gently. Jack had hardly realised, but he had just let out a rather dramatic sigh, his mouth still open in an ‘o’ shape, left over from his out-breath. He almost looked away, before remembering that he no longer had to feel guilty about this, no longer had to pretend he wasn’t looking, or keep his thoughts to himself. He cleared his throat, just a little. 

‘You look really fucking good in that suit.’ Jack said, his voice low and quiet, despite the fact that everyone in their immediate vicinity was either still asleep or immersed in some crappy in-flight movie. 

Davey felt himself flush, and looked away from Jack. 

‘You’re making it really hard not to kiss you.’ Davey murmured. Jack took his hand in his, and squeezed it gently. He glanced quickly around them, then leaned in and pressed his mouth, very gently, to Davey’s cheek. It was chaste, and quick - but, more than that, it was gentle, nothing like a kiss one might give expecting something in return, nothing like a kiss leading up to something, or hoping that it might spark more. 

He could feel the spot where Jack’s mouth had touched his skin, a burning imprint. It would only have mildly surprised him if he had looked in the mirror later to see a curved, shiny pink burn, in the exact shape of Jack’s mouth. He had clung on, for so many years, to the memory of what Jack’s mouth felt like, to the dip of his Cupid’s bow, to the little bits that were always chapped, to the spot on his bottom lip that drove him crazy if Davey brushed his teeth over it. 

Jack drew back very quickly, that familiar crease between his eyebrows immediately returning, as though he was worried what might come of that quick press of his lips to Davey’s cheek. Davey let out a little sigh, almost against his will, and reached out his free hand. In his turn, he leaned over and kissed the space right between his eyebrows, exactly where the centre of Jack’s frown was. It garnered exactly the response Davey had hoped - Jack’s frown melted away, and he smiled, his lips pressed together as if he might give something away were he to smile too widely. 

Before Davey could stitch his mind back together enough to form any kind of coherent sentence, a light crackle interrupted his painstaking attempts to string two words together, and the pilot began to speak over the PA system. As she did, the lights on the plane rose, slowly, and Davey blinked a little as his eyes adjusted. 

‘Good morning. This is your captain speaking.’ She had a light accent that Davey couldn’t quite place, especially over the crackling of the PA system. ‘It’s currently 3:30 a.m. in New York City and 9:30 a.m. in Rome. We have one hour and fifty minutes left of our journey.’ 

She continued speaking, but Davey had stopped listening. He was rather distracted by the way that Jack was looking around him, watching the people on the plane wake up. Davey could recognise, even after years apart, that Jack was searching for inspiration, for some kind of oddity, some kind of story, that he could spin into a pencil recreation. Davey wondered if he even realised he was doing it, or if it was simply a long-tenured habit, by now. 

He rested his chin on Jack’s shoulder, prompting Jack to half-turn back to look at him, a soft smile playing on his lips. 

‘See anything interesting?’ Davey asked. 

‘Not really.’ Jack replied. ‘Couldn’t concentrate long enough anyway.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ 

‘Mm-hm.’ Jack said. He turned around properly, and leaned in just a fraction, before stopping himself and sighing. 

‘What is it?’ 

‘One kiss.’ Jack pleaded. ‘Just one. I can’t - god, Davey, you’re driving me crazy.’ 

‘You’ve been driving me crazy for eight years, Jack.’ Davey countered. 

Jack just sighed again. He looked around once more - and, oh, now Davey realised just what it was he had been looking at. 

‘What if we - ’ Jack started, hesitantly. The tone of his voice was remarkably similar to when he would suggest some elaborate prank to pull on Race, back when they were in high school - the kind of prank that would involve a lot of paint, balloons, and a bucket suspended on a string. The kind that Davey would firmly refuse to partake in. 

‘Whatever it is you’re gonna say - ’ Davey cautioned. 

‘No, right, but - ’ Jack said quickly ‘- it’s empty, and - ’

‘Jack. No.’ 

‘Oh, c’mon, Davey. No one will even notice.’

‘Jack, I am not joining the mile-high club. Not right now.’ Davey said firmly. 

‘Davey.’ Jack whined. ‘You’re killing me.’ 

‘We’ve waited three years. We can wait for two more hours.’ 

‘Can we, Dave? Can we really?’ 

‘We definitely can.’ 

‘Give me one good reason why not.’ Jack raised his eyebrows, challenging. His eyes were bright and hopeful, and it made Davey’s chest ache, and his heart hammer against his ribs, as though it was trying to tell him just how excited he ought to be, with Jack sitting right there, with that look in his eyes, as if Davey didn’t already know, as if it wasn’t making his head spin. 

‘It’s dirty.’ Davey said, ticking off reasons on his fingers as he spoke. ‘It smells gross. It’s way too small. And - ’ he pointed surreptitiously at a couple three rows ahead of them ‘- they definitely had sex in there, like, half an hour ago.’ 

Jack wrinkled his nose. ‘Fine.’ He said, begrudgingly. ‘That’s kind of gross.’ 

‘It’s super gross, Jack.’ 

‘You’d better make it up to me.’ 

‘Oh, I’m planning on it.’ 

‘I’ll hold you to that, you know.’ Jack said, and smiled again. Or, perhaps he hadn’t stopped smiling, not for a moment. His cheeks ached, he realised, absently, from smiling so much . He wasn’t sure he had smiled so much in - well, if he was entirely honest, he couldn’t quite remember a time in recent memory that he had smiled so much. Davey was running his fingers over Jack’s knuckles, in a way that looked as though it was almost subconscious. He was smiling, still, a dazed kind of smile, and crinkled the corners of his eyes in a comfortingly familiar kind of way. 

‘When we land,’ Jack said, hardly realising he was speaking, so caught up in staring at the curve of Davey’s jaw, ‘what happens?’ 

Davey’s hand stilled, and he looked up at Jack from beneath his lashes. They were ever so long, so long, Jack knew, that they would brush against his cheeks when he blinked. 

Davey took a breath in, as if to begin speaking, but then let it out. ‘Where are you staying?’ He asked, finally. 

‘The residency is ages away. I was gonna find a cheap hotel for the night…’ Jack trailed off, and shrugged. 

‘I have a hotel.’ Davey said, quickly. ‘Half an hour from the airport, maybe.’ 

Jack raised his eyebrows, just a fraction. A blush spread quickly across Davey’s cheeks. Jack wondered if it still spread to the very tips of his ears, like it always used to, if he was scandalised enough. For now, though, Jack simply reached out and took Davey’s face in one hand, brushing his thumb over the pink spot on his cheekbone. 

To his utter delight, Davey blushed even more, and it spread right to the tips of his ears. Jack pressed his lips together to keep from beaming. 

‘I’d love to come, Davey.’ He said. 

‘And after that - ’ Davey started, beginning to frown a little. 

‘We’ll talk about that when we get there.’ Jack said, gently, but with a soft firmness in his voice. That seemed to satisfy Davey, who nodded, and turned his head, just a fraction, to press a gentle kiss to Jack’s hand, where it was still curved around his jaw.

‘Okay.’ Davey said, and his voice came out barely more than a whisper. 

‘Okay.’ Jack repeated, and smiled, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry for still not replying to comments! im unreasonably exhausted at the moment and i can barely find the energy to write but i read and appreciate every single one. i love u all xx


	14. landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! it’s been a while! writing has been. hm. hard. but it’s coming slowly!!  
> ur comments have been keeping me writing and i’m so grateful to u all

Jack had never really thought of himself as a needy sort of person. He liked to think that, more than anything, he was composed, independent, mature. 

Jack had, however, never found himself in this position before. 

The little light indicating for them to fasten their seatbelts had just flicked on with a quiet _ding_. The plane was just beginning to noticeably tilt downwards, towards Italy beneath them. The pilot was making some kind of announcement over the PA system. Jack couldn’t even tell if she was speaking in English or Italian. 

To say that every inch of his body felt as if it had been lit on fire was, in Jack’s opinion, something of an understatement. 

Davey was sat next to him, reading his book with one hand, the other intertwined with Jack’s. Every point of contact between them felt like it was burning white-hot - Davey’s knuckles against Jack’s fingers, the crossing of their thumbs, the flat of their palms, face to face, pressed against each other, curving to fit their form. 

A part of him wanted to go back to the beginning of this flight, when all he had been feeling was the awkward wanting lingering between him and Davey - and not this electric tension fizzling atop his skin. 

Davey nudged him, gently, with his shoulder. 

‘Seatbelt.’ He said, quietly, gesturing up at the sign. Jack looked at him, and blinked. His mouth was slightly parted, the beginnings of a smile pulling at one corner of his lips. There was a little patch of chapped skin, on the right-hand side of Davey’s bottom lip, like he had been chewing nervously at it. Had he been doing that during the flight? Jack didn’t think that he had noticed, if he had. So perhaps he hadn’t. 

Davey sighed noisily, and leaned in towards Jack. Entirely subconsciously, Jack’s eyes fluttered shut. Davey did not, as his brain had been - rather optimistically - expecting, kiss him. Rather, he took Jack’s seatbelt in both his hands and buckled it neatly up, patting it gently where it lay on the tops of his thighs. Jack’s gaze followed Davey’s hands with a delay of only a few seconds, eventually watching as they came to rest back in his lap. His own seatbelt was already fastened. Jack hadn’t even noticed him doing it up. 

‘What’s happened to you?’ Davey said, and he sounded rather amused. Again, Jack’s brain took a few moments to catch up to the world around him. 

‘Hm?’ Jack said. 

Davey laughed, soft and quiet. He reached out a hand, and curved it around the left side of Jack’s face. Davey’s head tilted to the side, a little, like he was considering something. His brow furrowed, just a little. 

‘You seem distracted.’ Davey said. 

‘I am.’ Jack mumbled. ‘You’re distracting.’ 

That made Davey laugh again, although Jack wasn’t sure what was so funny about that. 

‘I missed you.’ Davey said, again, still smiling, and shaking his head, as though in disbelief. 

‘I missed you, too.’ Jack said. 

It dawned on Jack, then, that he didn’t just mean those words. Or, rather, he did, but they meant a little more than was clearly evident. They were a substitute for others, for words that he thought in the back of his mind, that he had been thinking for a very long time. They were a precursor to those words - in the same way that Jack’s gaze was anticipatory of a path that, should all go as he hoped, would later be traced by his mouth. Across Davey’s mouth, at the corners where he smiled, over his cheekbones, his jaw, over the shadow of new stubble, down his throat and under the curve of the collar of his clean white shirt. 

Had it not been for the tightening of Davey’s grip on his own hand, Jack might not have noticed at all the sudden increase in their descent, the way the thrumming of the engine was intensifying, the tilt of the wing stretching out, visible through the window. 

And, all of a sudden, the plane’s wheels were thudding into the ground. They jolted Jack as if awakening him from a dream. 

Davey closed his book, again marking his page with his forefinger. Not letting go of Jack’s hand, he ducked his head to peer out of the little window, staring out at the bright sunlight cresting over the roof of the airport, and spilling out over the runway. 

He turned his head back to look at Jack, and his eyes were bright, full to the brim with excitement and hope and, although perhaps Jack was merely projecting his own emotions, nerves. 

The plane ground to a halt, and the air was suddenly full of the clattering of hundreds of seatbelts being unbuckled at the same time. For a moment, Jack wondered if perhaps Davey would reach over and unbuckle his seatbelt for him. He was almost - almost - embarrassed at the sheer longing he held within him for even the briefest of Davey’s touches. 

Davey, to his dismay, was bent down, tucking his stray belongings into his bag. Jack unfastened his seatbelt, and stretched out. All around him, people were pulling their luggage down from the overhead racks, and making their way towards the exits. It was funny, Jack thought, how everyone seemed so unaffected by the journey - as though it had merely been an eight-and-a-half hour pause in their lives, and they were now snapping back into action, resuming exactly what had been happening thousands of miles away in New York. 

Jack stood, and squeezed his way into the aisle. His bag was the only one left in the overhead rack, pushed right the way to the back. Jack frowned, and rose onto his tiptoes. Before he could get to his suitcase, however, Davey - who Jack hadn’t even realised had stood up - was reaching over him with ease, and pulling his suitcase out and down. It happened so quickly that Jack barely had time to drink in the way his suit twisted and stretched across the muscles in his back and arms as he reached out. 

Davey’s shoulder nudged Jack as he pulled the suitcase down. Jack wondered, absently, if his shoulder had actually caught aflame. It certainly wouldn’t have surprised him to see a little coil of smoke rising upwards from a little hole burned in the fabric of his t-shirt, right where Davey had brushed against him. Davey was still smiling, a self-satisfied little smirk, as he passed Jack his suitcase. 

Determinedly, Jack took his suitcase, tore his gaze away from Davey, and looked ahead, taking off down the aisle at a marching pace. Davey laughed, quietly, and watched him go for a moment. He followed Jack down the aisle of the plane, a little more slowly, taking the time to collect himself before what he hoped was the inevitable unravelling of every last bit of his composure. It was unfair, he thought, just how attractive Jack looked after eight and a half hours on the plane. 

The light stubble along his jaw made it look even sharper than usual, and, now that he was a little older, made him seem somehow more mature than it had when they were younger, and when all he could grow was patchy peach fuzz. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and it made Davey ache with a low kind of wanting to remember lazy mornings in their apartment, when Jack would wander into the kitchen in just his sweatpants, still hazy from sleep, and drink his coffee at the kitchen table with his phone in one hand. And he was wearing Davey’s old t-shirt. Davey wasn’t quite that sure the shock from that would ever wear off; he wasn’t quite sure that he would ever recover from the sight of it hanging off Jack’s form like it was made to fit him, gaping far too big for him at the collar and sleeves. He had sunglasses in his hair, Davey could see, now, already prepared for the blinding Italian sunlight that was sure to greet them the moment they stepped off the plane. 

Jack waited for him at the exit to the plane, one hand resting on the handle of his suitcase, still very determinedly not turning around. 

‘ _Grazie mille._.’ Davey said, with a smile, to the flight attendant waiting at the exit to the plane. 

‘ _Prego_.’ The attendant replied, with a returned smile that looked nothing less than exhausted 

At that, Jack turned and looked at Davey, head tilting to one side, and his eyebrows curving almost comically. Davey nudged his side playfully, and together they walked down the stairs and onto the tarmac of the runway. It was awfully hard to tear his eyes away from Jack, and begin to drink in their surroundings - after all, it wasn’t Davey’s fault that Jack was lugging his suitcase one-handed down the stairs, and that was making Davey’s mind think all sorts of things about the muscles that were currently flexing in his forearms. Once at the bottom of the flight of stairs, Jack paused, and Davey with him. 

Neither said anything. For a very brief moment, Davey wondered if Jack was going to tell him this was all some terrible mistake. Instead, he flipped his sunglasses down onto his face, looked Davey up and down, bit his lip appreciatively, and extended his hand. Davey took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all so much for being here!  
> if u are a writer whose fics i read then i am desperately waiting for my brain to be capable of actually reading. the time will come and i will read everything i’ve been meaning to and leave big long comments!! i love u all xx


	15. rome international airport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, for a good fifteen minutes while writing this: what the FUCK do americans call gaffa tape

The early morning sunshine was already bright and hot; not yet uncomfortable, but enough to make the tarmac beneath their feet feel a little sticky. Even if it had not been so, Davey would have been perfectly fine, such was the searing heat prickling at every point of contact between him and Jack. Fingers twined together, elbows bumping every now and then, the nudge of their shoulders that Davey was almost certain was intentional on Jack’s part. 

The airport before them soared high into the sky, big glass panels for walls reflecting the white of the sun and sending it streaking out in all directions. Big white letters spelled out something Davey couldn’t quite read, blinded by the sunlight. Ahead, the passengers from their flight snaked in a flittering line towards the entrance to the airport, pulling suitcases behind them, none quite able to walk in a straight line following eight and a half hours with their legs folded near in half. Davey’s own legs felt rather as though they were out of his control, taking heavy, determined strides towards the airport, controlled by some external force that had no origins in his own mind. Every so often, he would glance surreptitiously sideways at Jack, without even thinking, as if, in the very depths of his mind, he was determined to be sure he was still there, and the hand interlaced with his own was not merely a mirage. He half-expected Jack to shimmer away, his form warping and shifting in waves of heat, until it dissolved into nothing but a figment of Davey’s exhausted imagination. 

They walked into the airport, however, with their hands still firmly laced together, the steady hum of the wheels of Jack’s suitcase running over smooth ground a gentle reminder to Davey. It was with a dazed kind of ease that they drifted through the airport. Davey was never quite sure who it was that was leading them, who it was that was making the decisions to take the left-side escalator and not the right, who was reading the signs to point them to immigration, who led them through a winding queue of people until they reached the front of the immigration desks. 

It was another barrier, it felt to Davey, that would somehow bring about a change between them. The lights on the plane. The arrival of darkness and the breakdown of their years apart. The raising of the armrest between them, so that Jack could fall asleep on his shoulder. The door to the plane, passed through one after the other. The door to the airport, where Jack’s suitcase had caught on the bump of the mat at the entrance, and Davey had lifted it back up, without breaking the link between their hands. 

Jack didn’t say anything as he let go of Davey’s hand. Before he did, however, he lifted it to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to Davey’s knuckles. Davey smiled at the tenderness with which he pressed his lips there, and leant forwards to brush their foreheads together, at once a kiss and an embrace, however fleeting. Davey found his passport first, Jack still rummaging in the clutter of his rucksack, and he stepped forwards to present it, looking over his shoulder as he did. Jack glanced upwards, ever so briefly, a half-smile playing on his mouth. 

His sunglasses had been pushed back up into his hair. It should have looked laughable, but it somehow didn’t. On Jack, it just seemed to look cool. And also, kind of ridiculously attractive. He was still wearing those threadbare sweatpants and Davey’s old Columbia t-shirt. How long had he been wearing those? Six, seven hours? The thought made Davey feel a little gross, until he remembered that he had been wearing his suit for a lot longer than that. Besides, there was something about seeing Jack wearing that, looking a little swamped in the clothes, all sleepy and yet still bright-eyed, that made a slow, gentle warmth unfurl in the very pit of Davey’s stomach. 

Jack leant back on the handle of his suitcase, passport in hand, and watched Davey walk ahead of him. He felt a little dazed - although whether that was from the flight itself or from the events that had occurred on it, he wasn’t quite sure. 

Actually, that was a lie. From the steady pounding of his heart, to the buzzing of his head, to the warm clenching in his chest, everything in him was aching with _something_. He couldn’t exactly attach a name to it, couldn’t quite find the words to describe the bubbling mix of desire and longing and adoration and deep, cavernous fear that hollowed him out with every glance at Davey. 

Although it was, in the grand continuum of time, merely a few seconds, the time in which Davey stood at the immigration desk, chatted in Italian to a tired-looking officer, and walked through, stretched out into a long, hazy, languid stretch of time. The huge glass panels of the window and ceiling let in the morning sunlight with open arms. Long beams of light split at the touch of the glass like the shoots of a green plant, and stretched themselves across the airport with reckless abandon. 

Jack wondered, just for a second, if almost everyone in that airport felt the way he did. Did everyone standing in the queues next to him have someone they were looking at? Did everyone suddenly see the light from above reaching down to touch the person they loved? Did everyone see the sunlight cast their loved one in a skin of gold, a sheen of brilliance? Did everyone see the sun’s rays trace the lines that, once the sun itself had been tucked behind the horizon, they would themselves trace with their fingers, their mouths, their hands? 

Davey’s glasses slid down his nose a little. At his side, Jack’s hand moved, the tiniest bit, ready to push them gently back onto his face. An officer beckoned Jack up to the desk. He blinked, heavily, flipped his passport open, and stepped forwards. 

Davey was waiting for him just the other side of immigration. The moment that Jack stepped towards him, Davey hooked an arm around his waist. Later, Jack would realise that Davey was doing so in order to carry on walking with an arm around his waist, but in that moment, it was as though Jack’s wanting burst through to boiling point, shattering any inhibition he might have held - and certainly any rational thought. He let go of his suitcase, and wrapped both of his arms around Davey’s waist, tucking his head into the space between Davey’s neck and his shoulder, just the way he had always done. 

Davey let out a soft _oh_ sound as Jack collapsed into him, as though he had suddenly had all the air let out of him. He wrapped his arms around him, and held on, both of his hands clinging to Jack’s back like it was a life belt. He rested his head on top of Jack’s, and then, a little hesitantly, kissed the top of his head. It flooded Davey with an unexpected sense of relief to be suddenly overwhelmed with his familiar scent, so starkly unchanged from the way that it always was. It wasn’t that Davey had forgotten it - no, it was more like he had never fully retained the memory of it. Bits and pieces, here and there; sometimes he would catch the slightest inkling when he hugged someone who used the same shampoo as Jack, or walked close by someone who had a similar kind of musk to that which lingered on Jack’s clothes. Now, though, he wasn’t sure how he could ever have remembered it with anything but astonishing clarity. 

By this point, Jack had skilfully twisted his head sideways a little, and had begun to mouth gently at the bare patch of skin at the base of Davey’s neck, just beneath the collar of his shirt. Every trace of his lips sent a little shockwave down Davey’s spine. 

‘Jack.’ Davey said, his voice surprisingly even. ‘Don’t.’ 

Jack looked up at him, eyebrows raised, acting innocently surprised. 

‘We’re out of security.’ Jack said, plainly. 

‘We’re not at the hotel, yet.’ Davey said, tilting his head to one side. He had not, however, thought the action all the way through, and Jack smiled gleefully at the way the tilt of his head revealed even more of his neck. He pulled Davey in even closer by the arm around his waist, and pressed a scalding kiss to his collarbone, sucking gently on the skin there, just long enough that he knew it would create the beginnings of a mark, that he could go back to later and make far more prominent. 

‘Davey.’ Jack whispered, mouth moving against Davey’s skin. His voice came out far more desperate than he had intended, closer to a whine than to anything else. 

At that, Davey pulled away, placing a hand flat on Jack’s chest to keep him at a distance. Jack could feel the outline of his palm, burning an imprint through the fabric of his - well, Davey’s - t-shirt. 

‘We still have to go through baggage claim.’ Davey reminded him, and it sent a thrill through Jack to hear the softening in his voice, the way it had gone low and a little raspy. 

‘We haven’t got anything to get.’ Jack said, rolling his eyes. 

‘Well, maybe you don’t.’ Davey replied. 

‘Wait, what?’ Jack blinked, puzzled. 

‘I have to get my case.’ Davey said, gesturing to his satchel. ‘You didn’t think I fit everything in here, did you?’ 

Jack didn’t reply. 

Davey just laughed, and traced a finger across Jack’s lower lip, where it was frozen in a scowl. Jack tried to chase after it with his mouth, unsure of to what end. 

‘Come on, Jackie.’ Davey said, and took him by the hand. There was nothing for Jack to do but follow. 

The walk to baggage claim could have been a trek across the Alps, for all Jack knew. Through corridor after corridor they walked, waiting on long expanses of travelators, past huge windows showing planes soaring high above them, past dozens of bright yellow signs telling them that baggage claim was _right this way_ and that they would be there after _just one more left turning._

Jack felt an awful lot like a child, dragging their feet on a long walk, one arm still latched firmly around Davey’s waist. Or, at least, he would, if he had the slightest bit of wanting to slow down this journey any more than he already had. 

Baggage claim, as signalled by a large yellow sign, and a picture of a stick-man with his hand on a suitcase, was intimidatingly busy. 

Fifteen carousels twirled around and around, spread out across a football-field-sized atrium, with a ceiling of the same sun-soaked glass as the rest of the airport. Davey was adjusting his glasses, looking up and over the tops to see a screen above them that Jack couldn’t read from this distance. He opted, instead, to stare at Davey, and at the spot just beneath his right ear that - were he to remember correctly - would drive Davey crazy if he ghosted his breath over it with a soft desire that, as a terrified student, he would never quite let himself feel. 

‘Carousel five.’ Davey said, turning, as he did so, to face Jack. Upon doing so, he found Jack’s face rather closer than he had expected. He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to the very tip of Jack’s nose, then pulled him by the arm around his waist towards carousel number five. 

They wove in and out of groups of people - rowdy tourists with harsh, nasal accents and brightly coloured cargo shorts; whole families trying desperately to keep half a dozen toddlers within reach; people speaking in more languages than Jack could name; people rushing around; people sauntering lazily across to their bags with the ease only of someone who had drunk just the right amount of miniatures on their flight. 

Finally, _finally_ , they arrived at carousel five, which displayed a screen that Jack could just about read as telling them their bags were coming from New York City. 

The carousel was very still. Jack rested his head on Davey’s shoulder, and Davey rested his head against the top of Jack’s. Jack could feel Davey’s every breath. In and out, in and out, the rise and fall of his ribs against his own, the quiet noise of air through his nose. In and out. 

The carousel rattled to life, and Jack had to restrain himself from jumping up onto it and dragging Davey’s case off of it himself. 

One by one, very slowly, cases began to appear. 

A plain brown one. 

Two minutes later, a black one with a red luggage tag. Both were whisked away by their owners within seconds. 

Cases began to come in quicker succession, then, more and more people darting forwards to grab them. 

A woman in a floppy straw sun hat grabbed a humongous grey suitcase. 

A man in a leather jacket and shades picked up a blue and purple flower-print bag. 

One of those hard, plastic cases, in midnight blue, was picked up by a businessman in a matching midnight blue suit and tie. 

A pink flowery case, held together by brown packaging tape and sheer force of will, got stuck as it was coming out onto the carousel. An attendant hurried forwards and yanked it free. When it began its slow circling, there were four or five bags squashed up behind it, like a pile-up in traffic. 

The baggage carousel circled round and round and round. Jack watched it with narrowed eyes. Davey breathed, in and out. The pink flowery suitcase passed them by for a fifth time. A guy with long hair picked up a battered old guitar case that looked as if it was being held together entirely by the map of stickers plastered across it. 

The carousel was slowing down, Jack was sure of it. There had been no new bags added for at least three minutes - not that he had been counting. Davey’s luggage couldn’t be lost. That was not happening, not today, _any_ day but today. 

Two more suitcases were picked up. The pink flowery suitcase made a victory lap, the sole bag on there. 

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, and prepared for the worst. 

Davey lifted his head. Jack opened one eye. 

Before he could so much as move, Davey was hoisting a plain black case off of the carousel. Jack found himself even mourning that he hadn’t had the opportunity to watch Davey’s forearms flex as he had done so. 

‘Ready to go?’ Davey asked, clicking out the handle on his case. He sounded breathless - surely, his case couldn’t be that heavy?

Jack opened his mouth to respond, but found himself quite unable to put words together. He nodded - a little too vigorously, perhaps. Davey grinned, and Jack was certain that, in that moment, there couldn’t have been a soul in the airport not turned to face him, as he lit up with the sunlight and glowed. It wouldn’t have surprised Jack at all if Davey had risen into the air, nor if he had disappeared like some fleeting deity. But he did not. He simply took Jack’s hand - as if deities should have time for such mortals - and they began to snake their way through the crowds again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if ur reading this ily! those are the rules!


	16. room 405

They were barely running - it was difficult to do so with suitcases trailing behind them, and their legs still leaden from the flight - and yet, Jack was utterly breathless.

With every gasping breath, the air was squeezed from his throat, compressing his lungs as though they were folding inwards, tying themselves into tight knots of fear and sheer exhilaration. Davey’s hand was still tightly held in his, pulling him just a little. Every so often, Davey would turn his head just a little to look at him, a breathless laugh rippling through him, as though he was surprised each time to see Jack still there, at the other end of his arm. 

They all but skidded to a halt at the entrance to the airport, where Davey squeezed his hand, pressed his forehead, very briefly, to Jack’s, and then dashed over to the taxi rank. Jack leaned heavily on the handle of his suitcase. He wasn’t entirely certain that, were he to let go, his legs would continue to hold him upright. 

He watched Davey speak in quick Italian to a uniformed guy behind a desk, watched the way his fingers tapped against the desk with an excited kind of agitation. His eyes kept darting sideways, as if he was checking, over and over, that Jack was still there, was still waiting for him. There was a brightness to Davey, a light in his eyes that was at once familiar and foreign to Jack. It had been lost on him long before they had parted ways, long been reserved for other friends. 

It was a look of their early teenage years. he thought. Those were the times that he knew he had seen that same kind of joy in Davey - lazy summer afternoons skipping class together, gathered around a piano in a rehearsal room, cross-legged in a circle with their friends at a house party. It had faded from him - not entirely, but noticeably enough - as they ventured through college. Jack had hardly noticed at the time, and now, he wondered if he had been absorbing it, if the happiness of his own early twenties had been somehow at the expense of Davey’s. At the very least, it had dwindled down his own focus on Davey, his ability to read his emotions, his rhythmic habit of considering Davey’s feelings as an extension of his own. And then Davey had gotten his book published, and he had suddenly had a renewed brightness - only this time, one that had no roots in Jack.

‘Cab’s waiting for us outside.’ Davey said. 

‘Okay.’ Jack replied, nodding. ‘You’re sure?’ 

He wasn’t quite certain what he was asking. Was Davey sure about this? About him? About taking a chance, about inviting him back with him, about inviting him back into his life with barely a qualm? 

‘I’m sure.’ Davey said, without hesitating. His voice was very quiet, very steady, very firm, and very certain. 

‘Okay.’ Jack said, again. 

He let himself be led into the back of a taxi, hoisted his and Davey’s bags into the trunk, clicked his seatbelt into place. 

Davey greeted the driver in Italian, and they laughed a little in that easy way that people always tended to laugh with Davey. It helped, Jack supposed, that he knew the language, but it had always been such an integral part of him that was able to put people so immediately at ease. Jack watched the shape of his mouth as he spoke, the soft rolling of the _r_ sounds, the elongated consonants, the twitch of the corner of his lips as he smiled, just a little. 

The cab hummed to life, and Jack watched with an odd transfixion as the driver shifted gear and drove away from the airport. Davey mourned, for a moment, the space in between them, but, at the way his mind ran away, his imagination twisting and turning, he was grateful for the little forced imposition of his own self-control. He sought out Jack’s hand, twining their fingers together and resting their hands atop Jack’s right thigh. Jack looked down at their hands, like he had done when they had been sitting on the plane. 

When Jack looked up and met his gaze, there was fear in his eyes. Davey wondered if he meant for it to show - and, then, if he was even aware that it was fear that he was feeling. 

Jack seemed to sense in some way that Davey was thinking, because he squeezed Davey’s hand, gently, and smiled reassuringly. With his free hand he reached out and brushed his hair back, tucking it behind his ears, resting his hand on Davey’s jaw, trailing his fingertips along his cheekbone. 

‘Don’t think so much.’ Jack said, and it came out far quieter than he had intended. He cleared his throat, and spoke again, but his voice came out no louder. ‘We have time, Davey. We have so much time.’

Davey squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his face into his free hand. It only made Jack smile more to see him become a little looser, a little less drawn in, a little more comfortable. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Davey said, mumbling through his fingers. 

‘Don’t be.’ Jack said. He opened his mouth to continue, a thousand words suddenly tripping over themselves to be the first to leave his lips. The sight of the cab driver in the rearview mirror, and the quiet hum of the air conditioner, reminded him that right here, right now, was perhaps neither the place nor the time for such words. He resigned himself to pass the cab journey going over them, like the rehearsal of a speech, preparing them to be spoken aloud when circumstances finally befit them. 

Instead, he squeezed Davey’s hand once more, and leaned back into his seat. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Davey did the same, not letting go of his hand, but turning to face away from him, his gaze tilting out of the window and upwards towards the vast expanse of the sky. 

Planes criss-crossed high above them, tilted on sharp angles of incline or descent. Thousands of people must be inside those frail little tin cans, and each with a story. None quite so dramatic as his and Jack’s, Davey thought - and immediately chastised himself for such a thought. Was his and Jack’s even such a tale in itself? Every day, thousands of people found themselves encased in the same tin box, thousands of feet in the air. Every day, thousands of planes criss-crossed in the sky, thousands of lives skimmed inches away from each other, only to pass by in opposite directions, perhaps never to come so close again. 

For him to find Jack again wasn’t so strange, he supposed. It was moments like these that made him wonder if, perhaps, there was some inexplicable linking of souls, or of minds, or hearts, that led to their meeting in such circumstances. Staring up at the sky, though, it seemed nothing less than inevitable. Infinite paths were crossed on a daily basis. Infinite combinations of people had infinite interactions with infinite meanings attached to each by both parties. He and Jack were bound to meet again. Bound by what, though, Davey was entirely unsure. 

*

The cab drew up outside a row of pale stone buildings, all with elaborate stone carvings in the walls, iron balconies stacked up ten storeys high, and gilt signs spelling out the names of high-end hotels and restaurants and shops. 

The driver asked Davey something in Italian, and he responded in turn. The cab crawled to a halt in front of the biggest and most elaborately decorated building, with a green canopy covering a carpeted walkway towards the gold-edged glass doors of the entrance. By the time Jack has opened the door and stood up outside the cab, a bellboy in a neatly trimmed navy uniform had already stacked their suitcases onto his gold trolley, and was conversing with a tired-looking Davey. 

Jack slung his rucksack onto his back, feeling suddenly very out of place. All of this was a world away from the standard of hotel he had been intending to spend this first night in. Davey, satchel over one shoulder, glasses perched on the end of his nose, blended effortlessly into the scene. His hair was tousled, falling into his face. The shadow along his jawline had grown a little darker. In his day-old suit, the trousers a little creased, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, he looked, for the millionth time that day, so different to the way he had when Jack had last seen him. 

And yet, when Davey turned towards him, and extended a hand, and smiled, his eyes crinkled in the same way they had always done. His hand fit into Jack’s in the same way it had always done. His thumb traced circles on the back of Jack’s hand in the same way it had always done. 

He stood, again, in silence, and simply watched, as Davey exchanged words and passports with the concierge. His every motion seemed methodical, heavy, as if with exhaustion - which made sense, when Jack thought about it. When he drew his attention away from Davey, and back into his own body, he became acutely aware of the weight of his limbs, the drooping of his eyelids, the persistent aching in his temples. 

‘Room four-oh-five.’ Davey said, jolting Jack from his sleepy stupor. 

‘Four-oh-five.’ Jack repeated, nodding, and feeling rather as though his head was underwater. He allowed himself to be led by the hand into a carpeted elevator, surrounded by mirrors, and underscored by a quiet humming of elevator music. 

As the doors to the elevator ground shut, Davey let his body lean into Jack’s. To his surprise, Jack seemed finely attuned to his movements, and relaxed into him a fraction of a second before, until they stood, each with their weight against the other, arms around each other’s waists, heads resting together, their temples just touching. He watched the elevator raise them four floors, sliding upwards with so much more elegance than the plane had when it thundered into the sky so many hours ago. 

The fourth floor was carpeted with the same burgundy pattern as the elevator had been. The silencing of their footsteps on the soft carpet made Davey feel awfully as though he was a forbidden lover, as though they were partaking in some terrible affair. The sentiment was hardly aided by the shaking of his hand as he slipped the key-card into the lock on room number four-oh-five. 

Jack stopped him, placing a hand over his. 

‘Davey.’ He said, his voice quiet and so, so comfortingly familiar. ‘Davey, we’re gonna be okay.’ 

Perhaps it would have helped if Jack had sounded a little more sure of himself. A part of Davey doubted that, though. 

‘I know, Jack.’ Davey replied, and turned the door handle. 

It was oddly anticlimactic, to step over the threshold and into the room. 

The carpet was a plain burgundy colour. The bed was big, and had clean, crisp white sheets tucked in at the edges. There was a mint on each pillow. Their suitcases were stood in front of the dresser, and there was a notepad headed with the hotel’s logo next to the phone. There were two towel robes in an open wardrobe, two sets of slippers in plastic wrap beneath them, two brand new toothbrushes lined up neatly next to the sink. 

Davey heard Jack’s rucksack fall to the floor a split second before he let his satchel slip from his shoulder. Before the thought had even begun to formulate in his mind, Jack was facing him, his arms looped around his waist, Davey’s own hands resting on Jack’s shoulders. 

‘Hi.’ Jack whispered. 

Up close, Davey saw as if for the first time the little line where his dimples would be when he smiled. He saw as if the image had been burned into his vision the deep, blissful brown of Jack’s eyes, the little ring of gold around the pupil that would glow in the sunlight. 

‘Hi.’ Davey whispered back. 

He was so, so, uncertain. 

Not about Jack - never about Jack, not again - but rather about what he was supposed to do. What was the protocol? What was okay, what was too much, what was too little? Was there a way to translate three years of absence, nine years of longing, into a single action?

‘I don’t know what to do.’ Davey found himself saying, tripping over his words. 

‘Neither do I.’ Jack said. His voice was still hushed, like he was sharing a secret, like they were still on the plane and surrounded by hundreds of people. 

Davey leaned forwards, a millimetre at a time, until his forehead met Jack’s. It felt as though every nerve in his body was thrumming with an electric energy, and the touch of Jack’s forehead against his own sent a near-fatal surge through the circuit of his veins, right to the very tips of his fingers. Jack closed his eyes and let out a breathy huff of a laugh. 

‘I know I can kiss you.’ He said, slowly. ‘But suddenly I don’t know how to.’ 

A laugh bubbled within Davey at that, but died on his lips. 

‘You don’t have to.’ Davey replied. 

‘I want to.’ Jack whispered, but he didn’t move, and made no motion to press his mouth to Davey’s. 

Davey was unsure how long they stood there, foreheads touching, arms looped around one another. He could feel Jack’s breath brushing against his face, feel the even rise and fall of his chest. 

‘I don’t know.’ Jack said again, and it sounded remarkably as though he was trying to control a great deal of emotions from slicing through the even tone of his voice. 

‘Tell me what you do know.’ Davey said. 

Jack opened his eyes at that. His eyes were very close, the way that they were positioned, and when he looked straight at Davey it sent a thread of warmth spiralling through him. 

‘I want to sleep.’ Jack said, a little sheepishly. 

Davey did laugh at that, pressing their foreheads even closer together. 

‘So let’s sleep.’ He replied. 

*

Davey changed first, into an oversized shirt and loose pants. He listened to the gentle pattering of the shower against the tiling, and drew the curtains as he waited for Jack. He took the left side of the bed, and ate the mint that had been on his pillow. He turned out the lights, except for the little bedside lamp. 

He jumped at the click of the bathroom door opening. Jack, stood in the doorway, bathed in the white light of the bathroom, became suddenly angelic, emerging from pure light. He folded his clothes with a painstaking care, and placed them on the dresser, before slipping into the bed next to Davey. 

Davey turned off the light. They lay opposite one another, arms by their sides, noses almost touching. 

It somehow felt more intense than any physical contact ever could, more intimate than mouths and hands exploring forbidden territory, more serious than any spoken vow. 

In the almost-blackness, Davey found an odd sort of courage. He reached out a hand, and placed it on Jack’s waist, coaxing him just a little closer. It was as if the contact of Davey’s palm was a fire, melting away at Jack’s body until he had curled his way into Davey, wrapped his arms around him, and was holding him with a fierceness Davey hardly recognised - that was, until he tucked his head beneath Davey’s chin. 

He felt awfully like he was sixteen again, fresh out of his last growth spurt. Jack was in his arms, now the perfect height to tuck his head beneath Davey’s chin as they hugged each other. 

Davey kissed the top of Jack’s head. Jack let out a contented sigh. In room four-oh-five, with the curtains drawn against the midday sun, Davey fell into a hazy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so close to the end! thank u all so much for sticking with this. u all mean the world to me


	17. love, won’t you be,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! long time no see! or at least it feels like it. i’m back at school and fucking hell it’s hard. i loved writing this and i hope you can get a little bit of the joy i did from it too. i love u all!

Davey woke up first. 

It was only just beginning to get dark outside, and the light filtering in through a chink in the curtains was slowly becoming a deeper orange, as the sunset undoubtedly splayed out across the sky. 

It couldn’t have been later than eight o’clock - they had left the window open, and the quiet chatter of the city below was trailing up and over the balcony, spilling into their room. _Their_ room. 

It hadn’t been a dream, after all. 

That sounded a little stupid to think - it was something he would never even dream of writing in a book. No, too cliché, his editor would say. He would wrinkle his nose at it as he typed it out and quickly delete it, embarrassed to have thought he could capture any scope of feelings in such benign words. 

And yet, now, he found himself suspended in utter disbelief that the events of the last twenty-four hours had not, as seemed most likely, been conjured by his subconscious. 

There, on the other side of the bed, the crease of the pillow marking his cheek, was Jack. His mouth was slightly parted, his hair falling into his face, and the sheets were crumpled and pulled tight up by his chin, as if he had been gripping them in his sleep. There was a firm six inches of space between them, still, though Davey wondered if it had been breached at all as they slept the day away. 

Afraid to move for fear of waking Jack, Davey rested his head back down onto his pillow and resigned himself to staring. A part of him felt as if he should get up - make himself look presentable, like a housewife several decades ago who put on her lipstick hours before her husband awoke. What would he do? Comb his hair? Brush his teeth, wash his face, change his clothes? Would the maintenance of such an illusion somehow will Jack to stay longer than he was planning?

That led Davey, rather unfortunately, onto the fear that Jack was not planning to stay. Sure, this wasn’t exactly your typical ‘morning after’ - for one thing, it was the early evening. For another, there had been no ‘before’ for this to be the ‘after’ to. Still, they were very far from any kind of rational communication, and Davey couldn’t help but feel relieved that it had been he who had woken first, and very afraid that he was uncertain what would happen when Jack opened his eyes. 

Thankfully - or, perhaps not - he didn’t have to wait long until the wailing of a siren in the street below set Jack stirring, and his eyelids fluttering open. 

Davey froze where he lay. He watched with baited breath as Jack shifted, listened intently to the sliding of the sheets against his arms as he stretched them up and over his head, yawning blearily. Jack seemed not to have come entirely to terms with where he was, his eyes still mostly closed. 

With a sigh, he dropped his arms back down, and blinked heavily. 

The turn of Jack’s head was excruciating to watch, the movement of his head against the pillow louder than the scraping of nails on a blackboard. 

All of a sudden, Davey was faced with Jack’s eyes, with their deep, questioning brown-ness, with the shining ring of brown-yellow-gold around the pupil. 

‘What time is it?’ Jack asked. His voice came out far hoarser than he had hoped, far more wary than he had practiced in his head before speaking. 

Davey blinked at him, as though taking a moment to process his words. 

‘Let me check.’ He replied, and there was that familiar sleepy husk, the low tone to Davey’s voice that Jack had only ever heard on the rarest of occasions - that Jack had always known he would do just about anything to hear again. 

Davey pushed himself up with one hand, and leaned over onto the little bedside table. As he did so, the sheets fell and pooled around his waist, so perfectly imperfect that Jack might very well have mistaken him for an Adonis in an old grey t-shirt. Following his lead, Jack sat up, and folded his legs beneath him, pushing the sheets away. 

‘Ten to eight.’ Davey said, and then cleared his throat. He set his phone back down onto the bedside table, and turned to face Jack once more. He looked a little startled to see him sitting up, and so close, but did not draw back. Rather - although Jack couldn’t be certain - he seemed to shift a little further forwards, lean a little closer in. 

‘What do you want to do?’ Jack asked, and immediately regretted it. The beginnings of a smile quirked at the corners of Davey’s mouth. 

‘I guess we could get some food.’ He said, and shrugged. By way of a response, Jack’s stomach let out a plaintiful growl. Davey’s gaze flicked down to Jack’s stomach, then back up to his face. The two of them burst out laughing. 

It was an awful shame, Jack thought, that he was laughing so hard that he was unable to seize this opportunity to memorise this new Davey in a moment of such unabashed joy. As long as they were here, as long as they were together, they were plagued with a fearsome uncertainty that showed no sign of relenting. What better, then, to seize every moment as it came, to cling on, to dig his nails in and burn every image of Davey as he was now into his mind? This Davey, this person sat before him, was not the Davey who had left him so long ago. If he had all the time that he wanted, he would spend it learning, discovering and re-discovering, with his eyes, his hands, his mouth, with his chest against Davey’s, their ribcages interlocked, their hearts beating in unsteady, thrilled syncopation. 

But he did not expect such a thing. He did not expect to have all the time that he wanted. Even if he were to admit just what that stretch of time was, it would not be his. 

And the tears of laughter in his eyes left him unable to capture the image of Davey, suspended in his joy, the new lines on his face creasing as he laughed, the darkness of the new shadows on his jaw in this light. Instead, he committed himself to memorising the sound of Davey’s laughter. It was quite a new sensation, for him so suited to searching, to consuming, to memorising all with his eyes. He felt, for what must have been the thousandth time just in that instant, very out of his depth. 

Every second he spent on another thought was a second wasted. He squeezed his eyes shut tight as he laughed, and tried with all his might to dissolve into the ringing of Davey’s laugh, the new, low timbre with which it resonated, the quiet scratch at the back of his throat, fresh from sleep, that same familiar giggle every time he almost came back around from hysteria, and the same familiar gasp as he fell back into his laughing. This was not enough, Jack knew. He was not Davey, nor would he ever be, and he was not able to construct a memory that would last from just a sound. He was not able to build a reality with words, not able to recreate the world around him in any other medium but paint. 

He had never considered it limited before this moment, but now, it felt like a constraint, a frustration, a shortcoming, knowing that there would come a day when he no longer remembered this moment, this feeling, this _Davey_. The thought filled him with a white-hot fear and an icy sense of resignation. 

Their laughter died down to an electric kind of quiet. 

Davey’s gaze was fixed downwards, almost as if in embarrassment. Jack was unsure quite what to do, until he realised that Davey was staring at his hand, resting on his knee. Jack turned his hand over, facing palm upwards, and moved it barely an inch forwards. He watched intently as Davey bit back a smile, and very slowly took his hand. It made him feel rather ridiculous - considering that he had held Davey’s hand numerous times that very same day - but he felt his heart quicken its pace even at such a brief touch. 

The touch seemed to release some of the static crackling in the air, and Davey looked back up at him. He was smiling, a more serene, more relaxed smile than Jack had seen as of yet. 

‘I’d like to get dinner.’ Jack said, finally. His voice was very quiet, very subdued. 

‘Okay.’ Davey said. That gentle smile stayed playing upon his features. ‘I’d like that a lot.’ 

Jack laughed - or, rather, exhaled a fraction more forcefully than was usual. He felt very breathless, all of a sudden, his pulse skyrocketing, an electricity prickling at his skin. He raised one the hand that was not still holding Davey’s, and curved it around his face, brushing his fingertips along Davey’s brownbone as he did so. 

Davey’s breath stopped short, caught in his chest, stopped in its tracks. He pressed into Jack’s touch, and listened with a clinical attentiveness to the steady shaking of Jack’s breath. He looked at him, at the frown creasing his forehead, and the dark longing in his eyes. 

Jack’s gaze dropped, momentarily, downwards, lingering for a moment on Davey’s mouth. 

With hardly a second thought, Davey took his face in both of his hands, and kissed him. 

He had sort of intended it to be more forceful than it turned out to be. All he could feel, all that was coursing through his veins, was deep, aching, thrumming longing - and yet, when his lips met Jack’s, it was with an utterly unexpected softness. 

Neither of them opened their mouth. For a long moment, Davey could feel nothing but the press of Jack’s lips on his, the halting of Jack’s breath, the slight trembling of his hand where it was just touching his knee, the firm determination of the other where it rested on his cheek. 

It was Davey who broke away, desperate once again to look upon Jack. He, who so dedicated his time to the analysis of every sensation, the slightest of changes and the slightest of moves, so finely attuned to the world around him. Now, he relied on nothing but his eyes to serve him truthfully. The creases on Jack’s forehead had slipped away, the darkness of his eyes only intensified. His mouth was slightly parted, his chin tilted upwards, defiant-looking, as if his mouth was ready to chase after Davey’s. 

Jack moved the hand resting between them onto Davey’s waist. 

It was a careful move, considered, pre-meditated, the placement of his fingers deliberate, the soft pressure of his palm still cautious. Davey leaned into it, into even such a tiny impression of Jack’s body heat against his. 

Jack seemed to take some kind of confidence from this tiny motion, and ducked his head down to capture Davey’s mouth in another kiss. 

The touch of Jack’s lips to his was so careful, so full of something Davey didn’t understand, that it made him very suddenly want to cry. He could feel the prickling of tears against his eyelids, the aching sensation at the very back of his throat, that forewarned tears spilling from his eyes. 

There would be a time for tears, he thought. 

Perhaps they would come when Jack had left, leave little wet spots on the crisp white linen of the pillowcase, the opposite side of the bed starkly dry. Perhaps they would come earlier, meeting the china of the bathroom sink with quiet _clinking_ sounds, while behind him cars cast long shadows across the ceiling in the darkness, and Jack slept soundly, the sheets curled around him. 

He was firmly certain, though, that now was not going to be that time. In fierce retaliation, he moved his hands from where they rested on Jack’s cheeks, placing one firmly on the back of his neck, and crushing the back of his shirt in the fist of the other. Jack, to his relief, seemed to understand, and kissed him with a renewed urgency. 

His mouth felt almost the same as Davey remembered. The shape of his lips were just as they were in his memory - the gentle dip of his Cupid’s bow, the soft roundness of his bottom lip. The same bits of his lips were still a little chapped. He let out the same blissful gasp when Davey brushed his teeth lightly over that same spot on his bottom lip. 

There was a new confidence to his kisses, though, a leadership that there had never been before - at least, not when he kissed Davey. It had always made Davey feel strangely special, to be the only one who got Jack at his most vulnerable - not the confident, loud, Jack Kelly everyone else saw, not the leader they looked up to. No, Jack, to him, had always been gentle, questioning and caring, a little afraid. It sent an uncomfortable wave of guilt through Davey to realise that he liked being able to recognise that fear, that sign that the same boy he had kissed in the kitchen, on the balcony at Katherine’s, in the bathrooms at parties, was still there. Was still his. 

When they finally ran out of breath, they pulled away with a drawn out reluctance, chasing kiss after kiss from the other’s mouth. Jack seemed suddenly desperate, kissing Davey over and over again, on his mouth, his cheek? along his jaw, up his temple. 

‘I’m not going anywhere, Jack.’ Davey said, with a quiet laugh, as Jack kissed the side of his nose for the tenth time. 

That made him pause, but he didn’t draw away. Instead, he pressed into Davey, his forehead resting against his temple. Davey felt his mouth move, but he said nothing. 

Davey could feel the burning imprint of every point of contact between them, as though they were being welded together. It would hardly have surprised him if he had been greeted with a great deal of pain, should he try and separate them. 

‘I’m hungry.’ Jack said, suddenly, turning his face to the side. 

‘Okay.’ Davey said, quietly. He drew back, and then pressed a quick kiss to Jack’s temple. He made no attempt to disentangle them from one another, not yet. 

Not yet, not yet, not yet. Perhaps if he repeated it to himself enough, he could draw out this time they had together, extend space and time itself, stretch and manipulate it to his every will. 

He heard Jack take a long, shaky breath, in, and out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are maybe two or three chapters left of this?? i did not expect it to be so long but... somehow it ended up like this. thank u all for sticking with it (and me!) for so long xo


	18. be as you’ve always been

They dressed in near-silence. 

The un-zipping of their respective suitcases seemed to echo in the emptiness, and Jack found himself making every effort not to be so noisy as he picked out a loose shirt and trousers. 

‘I’ll, uh - I’ll change in the bathroom.’ He said, pointing. 

‘Okay.’ Davey replied, and nodded. It gave Jack a strange sense of comfort to hear the same shaky uncertainty in his voice as he was trying so hard to hide from his own - and, simultaneously, filled him with a sinking fear to think that Davey seemed so unsure. 

Very nearly tripping over a rug on his way, Jack made a beeline for the bathroom, and locked the door behind him with shaking hands. He paused for a moment, holding his breath, his fingers still resting on the bolt, listening for any noise from the room. He didn’t quite know what he was expecting to hear, but found himself waiting all the same. Perhaps rather unsurprisingly, there was no noise but the soft padding of feet on carpet, and the muffled sound of Davey moving around. Jack let his hand fall from the door, and, slowly, began to change his clothes. 

He splashed his face with water, and then cleaned his teeth, slowly and methodically, looking in the mirror all the while. He leaned in closely to his reflection, tugging the skin of his cheek with his fingertips. The dark circles under his eyes looked very pronounced, even more so than usual, somehow. His skin felt uneven and dry beneath his touch - thanks, no doubt, to the strain and the worry of being thirty thousand feet in the air with Davey at his side, and also to the fact that he always forgot to use moisturiser in the evenings before he went to bed, no matter how many times Kath reminded him. 

He released his skin from the pinch of his fingers, and smoothed down his shirt. It was a little wrinkled, from being in his suitcase for so long, but it was decidedly wearable. He un-did the first three buttons, paused for a moment, and then did the third back up again. Without even thinking, he raised his hand back up to his face - not to grasp at the imperfections he spotted with every glance at himself, but to his mouth. It still tingled, a dull buzz in the shape of Davey’s kiss. He let his eyes flutter shut for a moment, his fingertips still resting lightly on his lips, and tried, for what must, in retrospect, have been the thousandth time, to commit to memory the pressure, the shape, the feel, the taste of Davey’s mouth upon his. Unbeknownst to him, on the other side of the door, Davey stood in what was almost an exact mirror-image of his position, with one shirt sleeve rolled up to his elbow, and the other hanging around his wrist. 

Jack’s hand dropped to his side. He blinked at his reflection, once, twice. In the room behind him, he heard the soft creak of the mattress as Davey sat down, and he let out the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. It relieved him a little that his fingers shook a little less as he went to slide the bolt back. 

Davey was sitting on edge of the bed, bent down over his sneaker, tying the lace. At the clicking of the bathroom door opening, his head snapped up. Jack felt his heart still in his chest for a moment, hovering for a split second before resuming its steady thudding. Davey smiled, and went a little pink, before looking back down to finish tying his shoelace. 

*

It was odd, Jack thought, as they stood, hand in hand, in the elevator down to the hotel lobby, that hardly any time had passed since he had kissed Davey - or had it been Davey who kissed him? Regardless, it now seemed light years away from where they were. Try as he might, Jack could barely muster the courage to glance sideways at Davey, let alone to lean over and press their mouths together again. Jack’s palm felt a little clammy, but he didn’t let go of Davey’s hand. He was rather afraid that, if he did, he would lose any ability to take it again. 

He felt a little childish, being led by the hand through the hotel lobby, and also older than he was, as though, in some way, he was leading Davey just as much as Davey was him. 

Rome greeted them with a wall of heat, of soft, damp warmth and welcoming chatter. Jack wondered if Davey felt perhaps a little less alienated for his knowledge of the language around them. 

‘I know a place.’ Davey said, taking the monumental effort to turn his head and look at Jack. It wasn’t quite a question, but he had little ability to form the words that would make it so. 

‘I trust you.’ Jack replied, and it wasn’t quite an answer. 

Davey just nodded, and took the lead. They turned to the right, down a wide street lined with tourists and locals alike, all in various states of leisure, as was to be expected, anywhere at this time on a Friday night. The further they walked, the closer Jack leaned into his side, the more their hands swung between them rather than being stuck rigidly in place. 

The cobbles beneath Davey’s feet seemed intent on tripping him up. In the feeble glow of the streetlights, he could hardly see more than silhouettes. Jack’s hand in his felt perhaps more like an anchor than it ever had before. 

Davey drew them to a stop after little more than fifteen minutes of walking, outside a small restaurant with a green canopy, and various tourists sitting at candlelit tables beneath it. 

A waiter sat them at a table by a potted plant, with a small candle in a red holder at the centre. Davey’s chair legs were on two different cobblestones at two different heights, and he wobbled a little as he sat. 

It was a little odd how they fell back into a comfortable ease. With the table between them, and a menu in each of their hands, conversation began to flow - not at once, but in small bursts, to begin with. Davey pointed out the lasagne for the main course, and watched the line of Jack’s throat as he laughed. Jack said something stupid and flirtatious when Davey ordered for the both of them in fluid Italian. Davey nudged him under the table with his foot, and Jack’s dimples made their thousandth appearance of the day. 

By the time there was a dessert between them, Jack could see the way that Davey had relaxed back into his chair, the dropping of his shoulders, the releasing of the frown creasing his forehead. It was a relief, in a way, to see that the Davey he knew, the Davey he had fallen in love with and still loved, was there, was not entirely hidden from him. Most of all, it was not his presence that hid this Davey. He could be happy, could be relaxed and smiling, when Jack was there. 

He was almost embarrassed to think it. It felt immature, selfish, and rather stupid, as Davey smiled an easy smile across the table at him, to have ever worried that he could never again be present for Davey’s happiness, let alone be the cause of it. 

Davey was holding his hand, his touch gentle and warm. His thumb traced over the back of Jack’s hand. Jack watched Davey, as Davey watched their hands with such intensity that Jack wondered if Davey could see something that he couldn’t in the space between his finger and thumb. 

Davey looked down at the table, at where their hands were joined next to the candle in the centre. The flickering of the candlelight made Jack’s skin look a little like it was on fire itself, splashes of orange light burning on his wrist. Davey wanted to lean down and press his mouth there, right on the spot where Jack’s vein was being set alight by the wick of the candle. 

‘I always thought,’ Davey said, slowly, ‘that I’d spend my life with you. Not in, like, a romantic way. Just in a - ’ he broke off, and sighed, trying to find the words. 

‘Like I couldn’t see myself in the future without you there.’ Jack finished. 

‘Yeah.’ Davey let out a little laugh on his out-breath. ‘Yeah, exactly like that.’ 

‘It can still be like that.’ Jack said. Davey looked up at him, drawing his eyes from where his hand held Jack’s. 

‘Listen, Jack, I know we said - ’ Davey stopped again, and sighed in frustration. Times like these, when his trustworthy words failed him, made him feel a little like a fraud. ‘I know we said… a lot of things on the plane. But we don’t have to - _you_ don’t have to -’

‘Did you think I didn’t mean them?’ Jack asked, and the words should have sounded like an accusation, but they somehow did not, and took the form of a low, fearful disappointment. 

While it may not have sounded as such, Davey felt suddenly regretful for having made such a statement, and flushed bright pink. He hung his head again, squeezing his eyes tight shut and willing for the words to pile themselves back into his mouth. 

‘We said earlier that we’d talk about what came next when we got there.’ Jack said, when Davey didn’t respond. ‘We’re here, Davey. We’re here, and I’m telling you what I want to come next.’ 

It impressed even himself how even he managed to keep his tone as he spoke. There was barely a crack in it - a remarkable feat considering the fissures spreading like fault lines across every inch of his being. 

‘I want this. I want you.’ Jack said, and once the words came, he found himself quite unable to stop them from falling from his mouth. ‘I want to be with you, and I want it for as long as - for as long as you’ll have me.’ 

Davey realised, absently, that he had breathed in rather sharply, and that Jack was smiling at him lopsidedly. 

‘That would be quite a long time, Jackie.’ Davey ventured. 

‘Oh yeah?’ Jack said, and that half-smile began to spread, his dimples just beginning to show. ‘How long?’ There was a breathlessness, an incredulity in his voice. 

Davey shrugged. ‘Forever, if I had my way.’ It surprised him how nonchalant his voice sounded when he spoke. He watched, as Jack’s mouth traced the word soundlessly. _Forever._

_‘Il conto, signori.’ _The waiter said, startling them both. He held in his hand a small silver dish with the bill laid flat beneath two breath mints. Davey blinked at him momentarily, processing.__

___’Grazie mile.’_ He said, finally, and let go of Jack’s hand to exchange euro notes with the waiter. _ _

__‘Shall we go?’ Davey asked. Jack nodded. The scraping of his chair against the cobblestones was barely enough to disturb this state of fragile tranquility that they both seemed to have slipped into._ _

__Davey’s hand found Jack’s before he had even had the time to form the thought to take his. They wandered a different path than the one they had taken earlier, a little longer, a little rounder, into streets a little more open. They stopped when they reached a plaza, a town square with a fountain in the centre, and a clock tower that seemed to glow in the moonlight._ _

__They sat, side by side, on the wide stone edge of the fountain, a little closer to each other than was comfortable. All around them, the raucous chatter of people in restaurants rose upwards until it spiralled into white noise in the dark sky above._ _

__Davey’s hand was still firmly in his. Jack looked down at their joined hands where they rested upon his thigh. When he looked up again, Davey was looking at him from underneath his lashes, an indiscernible look on his face. Very slowly, and very carefully, Jack leant forwards and rested his forehead against Davey’s. As he did so, he heard Davey let out a long-held breath._ _

__‘We have so long.’ Jack said, quietly. ‘I promise, Davey. We have forever.’_ _

__Davey pressed a soft kiss to his mouth, and Jack felt the curve of his mouth as he smiled._ _

__‘We have a lot to figure out.’ Davey replied, and he sounded breathless._ _

__It was just like Davey, Jack thought, to be thinking that._ _

__There were a thousand things that he was certain were racing through Davey’s mind, a thousand questions, a thousand tiny specificities to sort through and sort out. What would they do when the book tour started properly? What would Davey do when Jack went on his residence? Would the publishing company shell out for two people to stay at every hotel?_ _

__Jack wondered, absently, if he thought hard enough, if he would be able to feel the cogs whirring in Davey’s mind as he pressed their foreheads together. The thought almost made him laugh, and he was, again, reminded of just how similar the Davey intertwined with him now was to the Davey he had known when they were sixteen, and in the midst of exams. He found, just as he had been then, that he was desperate to comfort him, to give him the answers he so desperately sought, to soothe the unending workings of his mind._ _

__He would, he supposed, finally be able to learn how to do all of those things and more, now that they had all of this time unfolding before them._ _

__High above them, surrounded on all sides by tiny white specks of stars, a plane trailed a long line across the sky. Inaudible from their position, it went unnoticed by anyone else, its flashing red lights barely a disturbance in the otherwise pristine night sky. Davey squeezed Jack’s hand just a little tighter._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m all 🥺 about this ending! thank you to everyone who has stuck with it and me and i hope this lives up to what you were expecting! to those of you who always comment, i adore you! you know who you are and every word you write means more than i can ever say.   
> onwards and upwards to new things!

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think! is this worth continuing? is it just ridiculously confusing? leave a comment regardless!  
> im also on tumblr @weisenbachfelded


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